


Candles Drowning

by GoblinCatKC



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodlust, Horror, M/M, Multi, Turtlecest, Vampires, Very Dubious Consent, dubcon, erotic bloodletting, is it consent if they agree while under his control?, people die very messily in this, shower assault, suspicious Splinter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2018-08-18 03:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 63,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinCatKC/pseuds/GoblinCatKC
Summary: TCEST. Altered beyond his own understanding, Leonardo hides the changes forced on him, struggling not to harm his brothers. But vampires are possessive creatures, and brothers who disobey walk a dangerous line.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a dream as described by Stalkerofdoom. There was discussion about Leonardo losing his moral center, a short RP ensued, followed swiftly by this short, with further bits following after.

Dozens of candles lit his room, filling it with a warmth that infused his cool skin. Surrounded by fire light, Leonardo sat on the thick mat he'd found for himself, a prayer rug for the faithful that now framed his body and drew looks down away from the shadows above him. The candle light did not reach the ceiling, leaving it comfortably dark, a smoldering shade of gold that wavered unsteadily in the flickering glow.

In his room, the light settled like a blanket along the floor, wrapping around him as he drowsed.

As he breathed, relishing the feel of air moving through him and sighing out again, the shadows breathed as well.

A candle guttered. The flame hissed and drowned in its own wax. His eyes opening to slits, Leonardo unerringly spotted the one dark wick. His breath stopped.

The candle smoked, glowed red...and began to burn again.

He closed his eyes and basked in warmth.

Beneath him in the lair, the televisions clicked off. The lights dimmed, and Donatello shut his lab and put his last cup of coffee in the sink. Donatello gave a heavy sigh, dragging his feet up the stairs and to his own room. The door closed after him.

Leonardo listened. His brother put down his tablet, pulled back his bedsheets. The mattress pressed down, and then his brother stretched out and pulled the blanket over himself. A moment passed as Donatello breathed deep, slowly settling into sleep.

Leonardo let the candles burn around him for another hour. His brother worked himself so hard, staying up insanely late. Working on strange projects for weeks or months. Waking early so that he all but lived off of coffee.

Heavily sugared coffee. Smiling in anticipation, Leonardo rose to his feet. He lifted his hands slightly, then made a quick cutting motion to either side.

The candles all puffed out, sending up trails of smoke as he passed.

His brother's room lay just beside his own. Leonardo lay his hand flat on the door. It wasn't locked, but he didn't want to touch the handle. They all woke so easily. He closed his eyes, felt the thin spaces between the door and the wall, the keyhole, the space under the door...

...and opened his eyes on the other side of the door.

Dark save for the tiny glow from the charging tablet, the room stood in strange shades of grey and black. The line of Donatello's desk, his laptop, the low edge of his bed softened by the blanket over the side. Leonardo came beside him and sat on the edge of the mattress, not even creasing the cloth.

In sleep, Donatello lay curled on his side, head nestled against his folded pillow. He breathed so lightly that even Leonardo strained to hear it, soothing and comforting to hear it in the still air. And the more he listened, the more he caught Donatello's heartbeat, faint but growing, as if it slowly came nearer and nearer.

His brother was alive, so alarmingly and tantalizingly alive, warm and breathing and vulnerable. Leonardo felt some part of himself ache to see this, in love with watching over him, hearing his whole body moving and working, even in rest. He put his hand to Donatello's cheek-

His brother's eyes flew open.

Not sure why he was awake, Donatello sat straight and pushed himself away, pressing against the wall. His eyes tried to make sense of the dark blur in front of himself, more a hint of motion than anything he could see. Donatello reached across his pillow and tapped his tablet screen. The cold blue glow lit a small circle around him, and at the edge of the bed, leaning close-

"Leo?" he whispered. He squinted, both blinded by the dim light and struggling to see the darkness just beyond it. "Why are you-?"

Leonardo reached out again, running the back of his hand across Donatello's cheek.

Donatello's breath caught. His eyes widened. No mistaking that gesture, the intimate nature of it. The sensual lingering of a cool hand just under his eye, a fingertip over his lip.

"Leo?"

"Your heart," Leonardo whispered, staring at the spot over Dontello's plastron. "It's like a little bird in there, just fluttering in a mad panic."

Putting his hand over his chest as if covering himself, Donatello swallowed once, lifting his head away from his brother's hand. Leonardo sounded as if he could actually see his heart. Sounded as if he were underwater, leaning closer as Donatello leaned back.

"Leo," Donatello whispered, then made himself speak louder. "Is something wrong with you-?"

"Nothing," Leonardo said, and he cupped his hand by Donatello's face, forcing him to look at him. "Be calm. You're mine. You're safe."

"...yours? But..." Donatello groaned, more exhausted than when he had been when asleep. His head tilted into his brother's hand. "No. What're you...?"

"Calm," Leonardo said. His voice came not from outside but inside Donatello's head, a firm command no less stern for all its gentleness. "You're mine. You're safe."

"Safe," Donatello murmured. His head tilted more and more and Leonardo was suddenly behind him, holding him in his arms like a snake around a mouse, flush against his body. When had his brother come under the covers? And without moving him? Donatello was too tired to think, barely feeling the tiniest point on his throat. A scratch, and then his brother's mouth closed on his skin.

Warmth flooded him, pulling him down so that he was heavier than lead, easily maneuvered in Leonardo's hands. He had the sensation of something moving out of him, flowing into his brother, and his brother made soft, satisfied sounds. A sated lover. A cat's purr. A barely contained hiss.

"See?" Leonardo whispered. "You're safe. I would never hurt you."

"Nev'r hur' me," Donatello slurred, content to repeat whatever Leonardo wanted him to say.

"You're mine," Leonardo said, all but breathed in his ear. "And I take care of what's mine."

Feeling as satisfied as Leonardo sounded, Donatello found himself placed back properly in bed. The blankets came to his throat. The light was doused. A kiss, coppery and hot, pressed to his mouth and stole entry, forcing a long taste that Donatello could not stop and did not want to stop.

"Sleep," Leonardo said, one last kiss to to the corner of his mouth. "And forget."

Donatello gave a tiny murmur that might have been an agreement. He did not hear his brother against slip past the door, lost in dreams that would fade in the morning, a dagger at his throat and a loving hand holding the blade.


	2. Chapter 2

With Raphael beneath him, Donatello against his brother's side teasing kisses as Raphael made strange, half-maddened sounds, Leonardo capped the month with his crowning achievement. Michelangelo nestled between Raphael's legs, spreading his thighs wider, eagerly lapping. All three of his brothers performed to his whim, enjoying each other and indulging in each lingering touch, every delightful stray brush against skin.

"Safe," Donatello murmured, licking the edge of Raphael's jaw, running his fingers over the prominent collar bone. "Loved..."

"W...wait..." Raphael's eyes drifted in and out of focus, lifting a hand to grasp at the lamplight.

Raphael's will was strong, stronger than that of their younger brothers. This was the third time he'd started to slip his leash. Leonardo sat at the edge of the bed, staring with wide eyes as he nudged Raphael's thoughts back into line.

Safe, he told him. Loved, he said.

Calm.

"C...alm..."

With a groan, Raphael fell back weakly on the pillow, lost in the command, lost in the constant pleasure at his lips, at his brother's gentle ministrations between his thighs. A light tongue's flick—

The sharp pleasure left Raphael sinking under waves of delirium, satisfied without any idea why. Leonardo allowed him to drift back into sleep, released Donatello enough to curl against him, beneath Raphael's sheltering arm.

He glanced at Michelangelo. His little brother sat on his knees, licking his lips once and watching their brothers sleep. His orange mask had fallen slightly, pushed out of place in his eagerness to please, and he didn't try to fix it.

Leonardo breathed a tiny sigh of relief. His head throbbed. In commanding Raphael, he'd allowed his control of Michelangelo to slip ever so slightly. He could never have controlled Raphael for very long, but Michelangelo followed each gentle push without any resistance.

With a tired smile, Leonardo raised one hand, tugging off the orange mask. He folded it and set it on the floor beside Donatello's ever-present tablet, beside Raphael's empty beer bottle.

Slipping free his dagger, Leonardo leaned close, made the tiniest of cuts on his Michelangelo's throat. He put his lips to it, drinking mouthfuls of blood. So much candy and sugar in his brother's body left Michelangelo sweetest of all, a rich desert that left him languid. The pain in his head faded. He licked the wound he'd left, lapping the last drop of blood as it welled on his brother's skin. Then a kiss, tasting his brother's mouth, enthralled by every bit of him, gratified that Michelangelo responded so naturally, returning his kiss instinctively.

"Sleep," Leonardo whispered, finally releasing him. "Loved one."

Michelangelo breathed deep, releasing the breath slowly as his shoulders dropped. His eyes, half-lidded, now shut as he curled up on Raphael's other side. He lay his head on Raphael's shoulder, putting one leg over his brother's.

Standing over them, Leonardo took the blanket from where it had slid to the floor and brought it up over them, all the way up to Michelangelo's chin. It left Raphael partly uncovered, but two brothers snuggled against him would keep him warm.

A pang twisted Leonardo's heart.

So warm. So tangled together. His mouth parted, tasting them in the air, so enrapt in their sheer presence that he almost couldn't bring himself to give the last command.

What if he let them wake like this, with their memories of the night? When they woke, looking at each other in complete understanding of what they had done to each other? With each other? How they had explored themselves under Leonardo's careful guidance and soft control?

Would they surrender utterly? Give themselves utterly to his desire, knowing he had only their best interests at heart? Sure that he would never knowingly hurt them, would keep them safe from the world and themselves?

Or would they cringe? Accuse? Condemn? Yell and point and demand and curse—

His jaw tightened. He could not bear that. He couldn't think about it, and if it actually happened?

"Forget," he whispered. "Forget."

He left them fast asleep together, oblivious of his presence.

So exhausted from his efforts, he didn't use any power to cross the lair instantaneously. Instead he walked across the lair to the package Donatello had placed on the kitchen table. Leonardo had prodded him to order another case of candles. He took the box and turned, already imagining replacing each one deliberately and methodically. Remove the burnt out stub of wax, clean around the brass holder. Set the candle into its place and ignite it with a thought. There was satisfaction in each one placed, each one lit. Sometimes he counted them for no reason, simply to know that they were there as he had arranged.

"Leonardo."

Mid-step, he froze. Only one person could still sneak up on him, and he did not like that Splinter put effort into stepping without any sound. Splinter might have pretended that he hadn't meant to if his tail wasn't also held delicately an inch from the floor.

"Sensei." Leonardo turned, facing him with a polite nod of his head. "It's late."

"It is."

Splinter stood facing him, leaning against his walking staff set on point on the floor. His whiskers twitched once. He might have been facing him as on any night, but Leonardo thought he detected the faint lowered tilt of his head. Like an animal facing an unsure threat.

"I thought I heard sounds from upstairs," Splinter said.

"A nightmare," Leonardo said quickly, then checked himself, irritated that he'd spoken. "Raphael had a nightmare."

Splinter said nothing.

"We just got him to go back to sleep," Leonardo said. "Michelangelo and Donatello are still with him."

Still Splinter said nothing. Leonardo watched him in turn, thinking that he should have turned on a light. That would have looked more natural. Or maybe he would have seemed more out of place, a ninja needing light. Should he speak? But he didn't feel like it, and he didn't.

"I notice," Splinter said after a moment. "That you have not called me master for several days."

Leonardo's eyes narrowed the smallest amount.

"Father?"

"No," Splinter said, shaking his head once. "Several days. Sensei. Father. Not master."

"My...apologies," Leonardo said, not sure what else to say. "I didn't realize that would bother you."

Splinter's tail twitched. Neither of them moved. Leonardo felt pinned by Splinter's look, and whatever Splinter felt was impossible to tell from his blank face.

"What does master mean?" Splinter said. "To you?"

"The one in control," Leonardo said, a faint tip of his head, clearly indicating his father. "The head of the family."

Splinter nodded once. "The leader."

Leonardo started to reply, thought better of it.

Despite his self-control, Splinter grimaced, trying to stifle a yawn that escaped anyway. He sighed, tapped his staff on the floor once.

"Forgive me," Splinter said, lowering his head. "I have not slept well these past few nights. I imagined..."

"Nightmares?" Leonardo supplied.

"...yes. In a manner of speaking."

"Do you need anything?"

The question was helpful but final. Nothing could help nightmares—Leonardo almost smiled, nothing but little brothers—and so Splinter could say nothing. Which meant that Leonardo could wish him a better sleep, bow and return to his room. He felt his father's gaze on him as he went up the stairs, following him to his door.

"Leonardo?"

He stopped, looking down. "Yes, father?"

"Your brothers?" Splinter looked so small as he stared up. "You still protect them?

Leonardo stiffened, offended by the questioning of his devotion.

"In battle?" Splinter clarified.

"No one will ever hurt my brothers." Leonardo's hand tightened on the box so that it creased at the middle. "I will never let anything hurt my brothers."

Splinter stood straighter.

After a moment, Leonardo went into his room and shut the door again. Today he would sleep in and blame the nightmare Raphael would believe he'd had. Then he could avoid Splinter, although it would cost him the amusement at his brothers waking together, warm and secure and confused. Perhaps laying still together, too comfortable to rise, too baffled to move just yet.

He would sleep, and dream of them.

* * *

 

Below, Splinter continued to think.

Leonardo said he would protect his brothers, but he had unknowingly emphasized that they were his brothers. Property. Owned.

This, coupled with other hints and half-notions, brought strange suspicions to Splinter's mind.

In the morning, when Leonardo did not appear at breakfast, Splinter asked his sons if they had noticed anything different about their brother.

Their uncertain looks, meeting each other's wide eyes, provided one answer, but only left a hundred more questions behind.


	3. Chapter 3

He rarely hunted. Why bother? He had three fine brothers to drink from every night if he wanted. But Leonardo wasn't sure how much he could take from his siblings before they would begin to wilt, and he wouldn't risk his supply so lightly. His brothers had to be protected, even from his own hunger. Leaving them untouched for one night, he slipped out of the lair, moving through crevices and thin cracks in stone.

Splinter sat before the televisions, their screens blank, watching the lair for an unknown enemy. Unsure of what was happening in his home, he meditated, feeling for the slightest hint of movement. He would let nothing harm his sons, and whatever affected his eldest would be rooted out and destroyed. So he sat, listening and alert.

Leonardo swept past him, less than a shadow, and passed through the front door, reappearing in a swift run.

He didn't know how he moved through the darkness. He simply did, as swiftly as and silently as any kata he had practiced his whole life.

Then up through the storm drain, reappearing beneath a broken streetlamp. He stretched, scanning the sidewalk and the alley behind him. Empty. The apartments above him hummed with life, but he didn't care to go to the effort of slinking inside. He slowly ambled along the sidewalk, following the faint sounds of conversation and rumbling motors.

A small bar, little more than a door in a wall, glowed at the edges as music beat inside. A handful of people dawdled on the street, stumbling against the wall as they waited for taxis, hands around the other's waist to keep from toppling over.

His eyes narrowed. The single burning bulb over the door provided little more than a thin triangle of light, but even that was too much.

A faint growl in his throat rose and died. He had never tried to manipulate anything beyond his candles. Still, a light bulb was little more than a burning wire.

He leaned against the wall, resting his head against the steel pipe that ran the length of the building. He breathed out, steadying himself, and then focused on the light bulb. Past the glass, to the wire glowing red hot, painfully hot, white hot-

The bulb exploded.

The glass hadn't landed on the pavement before Leonardo rushed forward. His teeth changed into something out of a nightmare, all sharp edges and points, and he struck the first victim so hard that their neck snapped on impact. He didn't notice what they looked like, didn't hear any sound they made when he hit them. His fangs clamped over their throat and tore away flesh, swallowing blood that rushed down his throat in great gouts.

Then the second human, and the third, all in a flash. The fourth had time to take a breath, screaming before his throat ripped open.

When the taxi came around the corner, the headlights swept across the mangled remains. Four heads lolled on shredded necks, surrounded by glistening splashes of blood on the walls, spreading along the cracks in the sidewalk down into the gutter.


	4. Chapter 4

Early morning practice meant warm-up stretches, a couple of katas to loosen up, and then a handful of rounds of sparring. Leonardo dawdled a little longer at the candles than usual, lighting incense at the small altar of Buddha that Splinter favored. Smoke rose and dissipated, filling the room with a scent of sandalwood.

He winced, backing up a step. The scent was stronger than he remembered, pushing him away from the altar. Coughing once, he turned and joined his brothers where they knelt on the mat.

"I want to examine your evasive skill," Splinter said, seated at the front. "Michelangelo, Donatello."

At once, the two of them stood and bowed to their sensei, then turned and faced each other merely with a nod.

"Donatello," Splinter said. "You will evade as Michelangelo attacks."

Raphael grinned.

"Oh, this'll be short," he whispered, not daring to raise his voice.

"Michelangelo," Splinter said, with a glare at Raphael to show that he'd heard. "Instead of your normal weaponry, for this match you will use a staff."

"...aw shell."

Michelangelo huffed as he set his nunchucks to the side. His hands twitched at the empty feeling.

"Don't worry," Donatello said, tossing him the bo. "It's easy enough, even for you."

"Keep laughing. I'ma gonna-" Michelangelo's quip faltered as he fumbled with the staff, finally getting a grip and leaning on it with a cocky grin. "I'ma gonna sweep you right onto your shell."

Donatello's answer was his own smirk and a lowering into a defensive stance.

Splinter called the start of the match. Michelangelo swung high, swung low, then added several short thrusts that kept Donatello backing out of reach.

"Guess that's the only way to teach Mikey how to use something else," Raphael said. "Make sure Donny can't hit back."

"Don't underestimate Mikey," Leonardo murmured to him. "He's just rusty. Give him a minute and-"

With a yell, Michelangelo ran forward, swinging the staff downward as if it was a club. Donatello gasped and dodged right, which let the staff hit the floor and bounce back up into Michelangelo's face. All of them winced as Michelangelo yelped and went sprawling backward on the floor.

"-and nevermind," Leonardo sighed. "Pretend I said nothing."

"I always do," Raphael nodded.

Closing his eyes, Splinter shook his head once.

"That is enough of that. For the rest of the morning, Michelangelo, you will practice with the staff."

"...hai, sensei." Michelangelo didn't move.

"And you're using the practice staff," Donatello grumbled, retrieving his own. "I can't believe my poor bo didn't break."

"Mikey's head ain't that hard," Raphael said.

"Close, though," Leonardo added.

"Donatello, you may be seated," Splinter said. "Leonardo, Raphael."

Already knowing they'd be called, they both came up to the mat. Donatello raised his hand to receive a high five from his older brother. On the other side, Raphael nudged Michelangelo out of the way with his foot, giving him a shove that rolled him out of the way.

"The same," Splinter said, receiving their bow and waiting as they faced each other. "Raphael, you will advance. Leonardo, avoid his attacks."

"Heh," Raphael said, looking down at his brother. "'Cause this sure wouldn't work the other way. 'Less you got stilts?"

Michelangelo lifted his head. "Oooh..."

Their difference in height had increased over the summer, with Raphael enjoying a noticeable if painful growth spurt. Although he was only a handful of inches taller, it was something he could lord over Leonardo.

"Wouldn't need 'em," Leonardo said. "You getting bigger just meant you got slower in more ways than one."

From the sidelines, Donatello smiled eagerly. "Oooh..."

Splinter started the match.

Neither Leonardo nor Raphael moved, watching the other intently. It was not a sword fight, where the first strike was often the last, but they knew each other's moves intimately. A slight tilt of the shoulders, a faint twitch of a hand or shifting their weight one way or the other all telegraphed their first move. Even their breathing, quickened or measured, was a hint. With pride on the line, neither was willing to lose.

Raphael shifted right, knowing Leonardo's defense on that side was weak. A kick, a roundhouse, a lunge that used his full height to his advantage, had Leonardo moving backwards in careful, precise steps.

"Backing up is so amateur," Raphael said. "Try actually dodging something, huh?"

"Easy to say," Leonardo said, crouching beneath a high kick. "When you're not the one feeling the wind going by."

"Aw, am I punching too hard?"

As they moved, Leonardo grew increasingly aware of his sensei staring not at Raphael. Only at Leonardo. Even when Raphael slipped once on a smooth patch in the mat, Splinter stared at Leonardo to see his reaction.

This exercise was not about dodging attacks. This was about Splinter studying his moves to judge if something had changed.

Splinter had become suspicious enough to set this up.

Leonardo frowned. If he moved too fast, dodged a little too well, if he used a drop of any of his newfound power-

"Teacher's pet hoping for the bell?" Raphael said, play lunging just to make him jump. "I ain't stopping 'till I tag ya, shrimp."

Something in Leonardo twisted. How dare his brother talk to him like that.

"Then you'll be trying for a long time."

Leonardo stepped in close, almost to Raphael's face. Surprised, Raphael stepped back, throwing a punch that Leonardo slid to the side of. Raphael's knee came up, somehow missing Leonardo's stomach, and the kick aimed at his head missed by inch.

For the next minute, Raphael attacked but it was Leonardo leading him around the mat. Every blow always struck the empty air where Leonardo had been just a second before. Every dodge, sidestep and turn was tiny, almost imperceptible. To the untrained eye, Leonardo was water flowing around his brother.

To the trained eye, every step was precise and fast, impossibly fast. Not a single stumble or mistake, nothing less than masterful.

Raphael's frustration grew. He should have won by now. Practices like this shouldn't last this long, and he focused on every attack, all sarcasm and smart comments forgotten. Leonardo was less a real opponent and more like something made out of air, wisping with the currents made by every punch or kick.

Silence. Leonardo grew aware of how his siblings stared, wide eyed, of how Splinter held his breath. Startled at his own mistake, Leonardo realized that he was moving too fast, too fluid. He had to fix this now, right now, right-

Standing still long enough for Raphael's fist to connect with his shoulder felt awkward. He could have moved a half-dozen times before Raphael tagged him. The sudden force sent Leonardo stumbling backward a step, and he winced and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Ha! Finally!" Raphael crowed. This his eyes widened and he put his hand out. "Oh shit, I didn't mean to-I just got pissed and-"

"It's not that bad," Leonardo said, adding more pain to his voice than he actually felt. "I haven't been in the zone like that for awhile. Felt like a real fight."

There. As if he had been in a fight for his life, against Shredder. They all knew he could focus obsessively when his life depended on it, when all of their lives depended on it. And hopefully they wouldn't remember that they rarely saw him fight like that, that usually it was a swordfight where the two opponents held absolutely still. That this kind of match should never have brought that out in him.

"Well done," Splinter said, sounding relieved. "We will finish the morning's practice with katas."

Leonardo was not fooled. Splinter's shoulders dropped faintly in disappointment. His father was relieved that Raphael was all right, but his body betrayed how Leonardo had revealed nothing obvious.

Nothing but indignation that Raphael had teased him, like a pet teasing a master. And a vampire's speed, inches away from his brother and untouched.

He felt his father's eyes on him for the rest of the morning until practice ended.


	5. Chapter 5

Workouts so early meant they burned more energy than most people did all day, and last night's leftover pizza still lay on the coffee table. Using his bo to vault over his brothers, Donatello landed in the living room first, grabbing the remote as he sat on the floor. He didn't flip channels but instead clicked to the news.

"Really, Donny?" Raphael flopped onto the couch and picked up a slice. "Can't we at least put it on something most of us like?"

"I'll flip it when they start on sports," Donatello said, holding the remote close.

"But that's when it gets interesting," Raphael grumbled.

Michelangelo sat down on the floor, nudging the table so hard that he had to catch the pizza box before it slid off. The table wobbled since Donatello refused to repair something that Michelangelo had broken by sitting on it. But he had little brother know-how and bent and pushed a folded square of paper under the broken leg, steadying it again.

Leonardo sat on the back of the couch, his own plate in hand. In a moment, he would head back to the kitchen with the plate angled so no one would see that he hadn't eaten. His brothers were enough of a distraction that Splinter shouldn't notice.

"I'm just saying," Raphael said, "that cartoons are on and I deal a lot better with Mikey's nonsense after a couple episodes of Rory Hammers."

"What you see in that show is beyond me," Leonardo said with a shudder. "It's gross."

"It's awesome," Raphael said. "Just 'cause you don't get the poetry of beating on puppets with hammers..."

His voice trailed off as Donatello raised the volume, leaning forward to better hear the reporter. All of them stopped talking. The station had blurred and pixelated the footage, but the massive splotches of red showed just how bad the attack had been. Blurry bodies lay strewn on the sidewalk. All the news station seemed able to show were the witnesses describing what they'd seen as they came out, an interview with the cab driver, and a few yellow evidence markers on the pavement.

"-details are frustratingly few," the reporter said, refusing to look behind herself. She had her hand pressed against her stomach as if she were nauseated. "Police are refusing to comment until they notify next of kin, but anonymous sources tell us that no one so far has reported any gunshots, only one brief scream that the taxi driver heard as he came around the corner."

"Look at the wall," Donatello whispered. "The blood goes up to the second story."

"Something had to hit it pretty hard," Raphael said.

"Not if it was a sword," Leonardo said, but he frowned. "Although that would take one hell of a lucky swing."

"More disturbingly," the reporter continued, "our sources also confirm one of the rumors going around that the wounds do not look like they were caused by a knife. These wounds look like they were caused by a wild animal. If anyone has any more information, police are asking for you to call in on the number below the screen. For news channel six..."

Donatello grimaced, turning the channel as promised now that the news turned to sports. He missed Raphael's sigh.

"Another mutant?" Michelangelo asked. "Like maybe a rat that got bigger and...oh. Heh. Sorry, sensei."

Splinter's whiskers twitched. "Something that fierce and fast on the loose will be a danger even for you, my sons. No one leaves the lair except together. Understood?"

They all nodded, responding in a chorus of "hai sensei."

"You don't think that could come down here," Michelangelo asked. "Do you?"

Donatello shook his head. "I have cameras set to motion alarms. We'll know if anything shows up down here."

"Maybe we should go up and find it," Raphael said. "Kill it before it kills again."

Leonardo snorted. "Find one monster in a huge city. A monster we know nothing about."

"Yeah," Donatello said. "We need more information. I'll start a search, start combing through the news. See if I come up with anything."

"Besides," Leonardo said, "it's not like we're the police. We'll stay together on supply runs. If we see anything, we'll kill it."

"And hopefully have some idea of what we're fighting." Donatello picked up his half-eaten pizza. "I'll finish this in the lab. See you at lunch."

"I'll be in my room," Leonardo said. "There's a book I wanted to finish."

"Nerds," Raphael said without any heat. "Donny, wait up. I need to work on my bike."

"Sweet," Michelangelo said. "Then the shower's free. Abandon all hope of hot water ye who enter next."

As they separated, Leonardo made a show of putting the edge of the pizza at his mouth as if he were chewing off a bit on his way to his room. He'd been able to fold it under itself, but he was all too aware of Splinter's look following him up. His tricks were going to wear thin soon.

He hid the uneaten food in a plastic bag, stuffing it behind a bookshelf. He could throw it away later.

He didn't bother lighting his candles, however. He removed his mask and his gear, stretching once. The bruise where Raphael struck him was already fading. Should he keep hitting himself so that it seemed to heal more slowly? Perhaps he should have brought an ice pack with him.

Whatever. He had other thoughts in mind, specifically that of his little brother alone in the shower.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: assault in the shower, with all that entails

As before, he moved through his door, sliding through shadows, clinging to the walls as he headed toward the bathroom. His father still sat in the living room, facing Leonardo's door.

Leonardo paused, half-dreading that Splinter might suddenly turn and look directly at him. Impossible, but he feared it anyway. But no. After a long moment, Splinter rose and returned to his own room, closing the door behind himself.

Which left Leonardo free to sweep low, a living shadow along the carpet. He slid beneath the bathroom door and, to his delight, the bolt lock had been thrown, leaving him alone with Michelangelo.

Heat filled the room, drawing Leonardo close. He passed the toilet stalls, still impressed with Donatello's ingenuity. This old subway station had public restrooms, but their brother had managed to convert the stalls at the very end into a large, luxurious shower stall. Even now, steam rolled under the curtain and covered the floor.

Leonardo joined with the water vapor, pleased at how it mixed with his own mist. To anyone looking in, the floor appeared to be covered in steam from a needlessly hot shower. He felt buoyed up and cleansed, and he flowed over the tile, swirling at his brother's feet.

Michelangelo wasn't singing. That in itself was a little odd, but his brother stood with his hands against the wall, groaning slightly as he let the hot water course over himself. His eyes were squeezed shut, all too vulnerable as steam wafted around his body, soft tendrils that snaked around his waist, his arms.

Ah. So that was why Michelangelo was groaning.

Leonardo solidified just enough to be visible, a wraith shape behind his brother.

"Did you want help with that?" he whispered over the sound of falling water.

With a sharp gasp, Michelangelo whirled, his mouth wide open—for a scream or just in shock? It didn't matter. Leonardo closed the few inches between them, covering his brother's mouth with his own. There was a muffled cry and as Michelangelo tried to push him off, Leonardo simply held his brother's wrists and pushed him against the cool tile wall.

He put his knee between Michelangelo's legs, keeping them open. His brother struggled, the tiny scratches of a kitten as Leonardo gently brought his hands up above his head, crossed at the wrist so he could pin his brother with one hand.

Leonardo's smile faded. He could make Michelangelo stop struggling with a word, and yet to puppet his brother left him feeling empty inside. But he didn't have to resort to that, not yet.

He put his free hand on Michelangelo's cheek, trailing his fingers down his brother's throat, along the edge of his shell to his waist. A sweet torture to have to hold himself back, but the longer the kiss went, the less forceful it had to be. The more Leonardo took, the less Michelangelo thrashed until his movements became small and weak and finally nothing at all.

When Michelangelo felt that the assault wasn't going further, that he was merely trapped and not attacked, he caught his breath and stared at his brother. His heartbeat calmed, although it still fluttered in excitement. Leonardo smiled to hear it. The little bird in his brother's chest no longer flailed at its cage, but its wings flapped uncertainly.

"What...?" Michelangelo breathed. "How'd you...? Why're you...?"

Michelangelo glanced at the door, half expecting it to be open.

"You know I can get through anything," Leonardo whispered. "Master ninja, remember?"

Doubt reflected in Michelangelo's eyes. He hissed in as Leonardo's hand moved farther south, down his plastron, lightly fingering his hip where his shell touched his skin. And then to his—

Michelangelo bucked his hips against Leonardo's hand, opening his mouth—

Leonardo stole another kiss, swallowing his yell. He prepared the command in his mind, ready to order his brother to calm, to enjoy, and then ultimately to forget.

And then Michelangelo spread thighs just a little wider. The kiss was returned, a tiny flick of his tongue but all the invitation that Leonardo could want. He slowed his attack, holding his brother firmly in hand as he rolled his cock in his palm.

"Why'd you..." Michelangelo clenched his jaw as Leonardo found a rhythm, leaning his head back against the wall. "Why didn't you just ask?"

"I've tried that," Leonardo whispered. He scented blood, and he found a tiny drop on his brother's lip. He licked it away before the water could take it. "You always panic."

"'Always'?" Michelangelo whimpered as he came closer to the brink, thrusting involuntarily into Leonardo's hand. "Dude...what the hell...?"

"This is the first time you've let me," Leonardo said, his eyes half lidded, enjoying the feel of his brother's pleasure just as much as the feel of pinning his wrists. "I love seeing you like this."

"Like what?" Michelangelo tried to ask, only to become incoherent as he came, lost in pleasure he recognized but couldn't remember. This was nothing like when he took care of his own needs himself. His knees went weak, but Leonardo held him easily, one arm around his waist, still holding him captive, placing kisses along his throat.

Michelangello had the strangest sense that he should feel a tiny prick on his neck, but none came.

When he could look straight again, Michelangelo stared at his brother, half aware of the water beginning to cool. How long had Leonardo held him there, prolonging the pleasure he felt? More worrying, though, was the look on his brother's face.

Leonardo watched him like a snake watching a mouse, half afraid the mouse would bite, half afraid he would have to bite first. Something was building up inside him. Michelangelo didn't know what, but he felt it coming, felt it aimed at him. His instincts took over and he gasped as Leonardo tensed, preparing for some horrible thing—

"I don't want to forget," Michelangelo blurted.

Leonardo blinked. "What?"

"You said you did this before." Michelangelo swallowed once, not knowing how that attracted his brother's eyes to his throat. "But I don't remember. So...I don't want to forget."

His brother's eyes narrowed. "I made you—"

"But I liked what came after."

Michelangelo faced his brother as if he were a mortal threat. He had the feeling that he was begging for his life, that he was in more danger now than he had been facing any enemy, including Saki. He didn't know in danger of what. Not in danger of death, but for his sense of self. His heart pounded, and Leonardo's gaze flickered down at his chest as if he could hear it.

"You don't have to rush me," Michelangelo whispered. "You said you wished I would let you. So let me remember, and I won't ever fight back again. If you don't make me panic—"

"You're lying," Leonardo said. "You just don't want to forget."

"If I didn't like it," Michelangelo said, "I'd want to forget. I just don't wanna be scared when you come in and...however you got in—"

"Quiet."

Michelangelo's voice cut itself off. He gasped, surprised that he could still breathe. Leonardo watched him, obviously considering it. His hand was a steel vise holding Michelangelo helplessly stretched out before him, and the sense of power and vulnerability made him reckless.

"You'll...let me?" Leonardo asked, tilting his head. "Without question?"

Michelangelo nodded, unable to do anything else. Leonardo forced one last kiss, bruising in its strength, but Michelangelo understood it for a test and opened his mouth, yielding and allowing his brother to take whatever he wanted. When Leonardo drew back, looking into Michelangelo's eyes, he hesitated.

And then leaned against his little brother, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth by way of apology. His hand stopped being steel and turned into just a hand lacing their fingers. As if this were nothing more than a rough tryst. As if he could kiss away the attack.

As he spoke again, his voice took on the familiar commanding tone.

"You will say nothing of this." He looked into Michelangelo's eyes, caressing his cheek. "You will not communicate this in any way. You will obey me in this. Do you understand?"

Michelangelo nodded once. The water was turning cold.

Leonardo released his hands, stepping back. Michelangelo immediately turned off the shower, then rubbed his wrists. To his surprise, there were no bruises or marks on his skin. He looked up, his lips parted, pouting when his voice wouldn't come. Leonardo sighed, waving his hand idly.

"You can speak," he said softly.

"Okay, seriously dude," Michelangelo started. "Great you let me remember, and I am totally glad for that. But what the hell? How are you doing any of this? Is it magic? Are you like a super villain now? Did you get bit by a radioactive mist monster? Are you—?"

Leonardo groaned, putting one hand over his face.

"I'm—" he started, then cut himself off. "No, just come upstairs. I'll explain everything, but I'm not doing this in a cold bathroom."

"Can I bring up something to eat?" Michelangelo asked. "I know you hate food in your room, but I wasn't expecting all of...this. Kinda took it outta me."

Leonardo blinked. Assaulted, surprised in a locked bathroom, certain that his brother was a comic book villain...and Michelangelo was less interested in protecting himself and more worried that Leonardo might be annoyed at crumbs on the carpet.

For the first time since Leonardo had been all but torn open, he remembered why he'd come back at all.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to add a "thank you" to everyone who comments. I've got more of this story done, but I've been so tired and stressed with work piling up on me that posting is taking vital energy points away. It was the last handful that made me decide to keep posting stuff up here. All the love.

Leonardo sat as he always did, surrounded by over a hundred candles, lounging in their warmth. Tonight, though, Michelangelo sat with him, tucked neatly between his legs, leaning back against his brother's plastron and wrapped in Leonardo's arms. Michelangelo was acutely aware of his bare throat, vulnerable and only an inch from his brother's mouth. Leonardo leaned his head on Michelangelo's shoulder, sighing deep, pressing an occasional kiss to his brother's skin.

Michelangelo fidgeted, and the arms around him became iron, trapping him close.

"Dude, I ain't going nowhere," he complained, turning his head just enough to see his brother from the corner of his eye. "Just wanna get comfortable."

Leonardo grumbled, a low and irritated growl in his chest so that Michelangelo felt the reverberations through his shell. But then Leonardo's grip loosened, just slack enough to let Michelangelo squirm and scoot and finally slouch, his legs splayed out over Leonardo's.

"You're fidgety," Leonardo murmured, tightening his grip again. "Is this uncomfortable for you? I'm not sleeping in the bed anymore, but I could hold you there instead."

"I'm good." Michelangelo glanced at the bed, the sheets tussled in what he was increasingly aware of as an elaborate lie. "You don't sleep?"

"No," Leonardo said. "I mean, I can. If I want to. But I saw what that looks like. I don't want one of you walking in on me like that."

"Like what?"

"...I might hurt you if I didn't know it was you."

Michelangelo frowned. That wasn't what he'd asked. But he was wrapped up in the coils of a loving snake, and he didn't want to anger his brother by asking uncomfortable questions.

"So you just sit here?" he asked. "And do nothing?"

"I meditate." Leonardo chuckled once. "You forget, I like meditation. And I like the warmth. It's so cold otherwise. And I like listening to you."

"'Listening'?"

"Well, all three of you. When you're asleep. When you're in bed alone. I hear you whisper things you don't tell anyone else when you're awake."

Leonardo nuzzled his brother's cheek, Michelangelo had the feeling that he was being inhaled, a hunter memorizing his prey's unique scent.

"You whisper each other's names," Leonardo continued. "Donatello presses his face into his pillow so no one hears. Sometimes Raphael cries. And you...you say our names in your sleep, and you wake up and say them again."

"How long've you been eavesdropping on us?" Michelangelo asked.

"Almost a week."

Leonardo shrugged. The time was not important to him. He licked at Michelangelo's throat, the fresh wound he'd made with his knife.

Michelangelo swallowed once, nervously. The cut ached, but the pain was a low burn, just enough to be there but not enough to make Michelangelo wince. And as Leonardo distracted himself with putting his lips to the wound once more, teasing out a drop of blood, Michelangelo sat obediently still. Even tipped his head back, submitting so that Leonardo could not mistake his movements for struggling.

His thoughts, however, raced. Michelangelo counted back the days, trying to remember when Leonardo acted differently. Remembered a night that his brother had not come home and the worried hours until the next night. He remembered Leonardo coming out of the shower, pushing them away as he begged off exhaustion, promising an explanation when he woke up. And before that...

Nothing. A blank spot. Life as normal.

"You made us forget," Michelangelo said. "When you came home."

Leonardo stopped, hesitating just above his throat.

The room, in spite of the candles, turned ice cold.

"...yes." He put his hand under Michelangelo's chin, gently but mercilessly turning him enough so that he could see his brother's eyes. "Don't ask about it again."

"I..."

Michelangelo stared at him, lips parted, his breath coming too fast, misting in the cool air.

Leonardo's look darkened.

"Okay...okay." Michelangelo nodded. "I won't. Promise. Okay."

As if nothing had happened, the room grew warm again. Leonardo no longer plied him for another bite, instead petting the edge of his shell, caressing the curve of his thigh.

Michelangelo frowned. Nothing about this was right, and his situation was delicate, horribly precarious. Push too hard and he could fall out of Leonardo's good will. But if he didn't push at all, he might not be himself all too soon.

"I don't want you to get mad at me," he said. "I don't want to be scared of you."

"You?" Leonardo's whisper turned bitter. "I'm the one in danger. I would never hurt you."

"Hey!" Michelangelo turned his head, glaring at him. "I'm not the guy sexing up unwilling turtles and making them forget about it."

"You were never unwilling," Leonardo hissed. "You went so willingly that Donatello and Raphael could barely keep up. And Raphael only..."

Leonardo cut himself off. Michelangelo blinked, thinking he might continue. When he didn't, Michelangelo chanced to push a little more.

"Raphael only...?"

Leonardo glanced sideways at him, clearly measuring his next words. Considering if he should say anything or order his silence again. But controlling a puppet brother must not have been satisfying, because he he half-shrugged and looked away.

"Raphael only slipped my control sometimes. He doesn't...he doesn't like anyone controlling him." A long sigh. "Even me."

Especially you, Michelangelo thought, but he didn't dare voice that. And the sigh, as if not being able to control all of them was a burden on Leonardo's soul.

"You don't have to be afraid of us," Michelangelo said, and he tried to put all his love and trust into his voice, staring at him with wide, sincere eyes. "I wouldn't hurt you."

Leonardo half-smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. A vampire was slow to give his trust, as much as he demanded unconditional loyalty from those around him. But he kissed him, and lapped at his throat again, and simply held Michelangelo for a long while. They spoke of little things, not touching on anything important, and Michelangelo felt as if Leonardo were talking only to keep listening to him, to grow drunk off of his little brother's voice.

When they were called down to dinner, Michelangelo walked with Leonardo's arm draped possessively over his shoulder.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Donatello was already seated with his tablet beside him, more occupied with his screen than the rice and fish in front of him. Raphael came in from the kitchen, yawning as he cracked open a can of beer and straddled his chair. Neither of them noticed Michelangelo all but steered to the seat beside Leonardo's, the way that their elder brother sat with one foot braced on Michelangelo's chair. To prevent him from scooting away? To simply lay claim? Michelangelo didn't try to reposition himself at the table.

"There was another attack today," Donatello said, scrolling down his screen.

"You mean like the animal one?" Raphael asked.

"Yeah," Donatello nodded once. "This one left one body, but it wasn't all the same. This victim wasn't torn apart. Jut a big gaping wound across his throat and chest."

Michelangelo stared at the table for a moment, swallowing once. Then he glanced sideways at Leonardo, whose calm look never wavered. Not even a hint of sympathy or remorse for either this victim or the victims earlier, the ones who had been ripped apart.

Nausea washed over him. Had those been his brother's work? He hadn't even thought of that, so overwhelmed with Leonardo's assault on him in the shower, the predatory embrace in a room of candles. Leonardo had killed before—all of them had their share of blood on their hands—but never innocents. Never noncombatants.

And Leonardo didn't even flinch.

Michelangelo started to wonder how much of his brother was still there behind his eyes.

"Not hungry?"

_That_ brought a flinch from his brother. The plate before Leonardo was untouched, and he turned faintly, just enough to be respectable, tipping his head ever so slightly at their father.

"Not much, father." Leonardo half-shrugged. "I ate earlier. I'll take it with me, though, so Raph doesn't swoop down on it later."

"You abandon food in the fridge," Raphael said, "it's fair game."

"I just don't like eating after a fight," Leonardo said. "And...Mikey? You okay?"

Michelangelo had put his arms around his stomach, his appetite gone. Leonardo no longer felt as much like Leonardo, as if something else were moving in his skin. The hand coming to rest on his shoulder was too cool to the touch, alive but only with stolen warmth, heat fading now that he had left his candles. Did Leonardo feel as cold as a corpse?

His breath stopped. Was that what Leonardo hadn't wanted to answer what he looked like when he slept?

"Answer me."

The command was questioning, kind, worried that he might be ill. It didn't matter. A gentle tone didn't mask that it was a command, and Michelangelo had promised—no, _sworn_ —to obey. The price of keeping his sense of self was losing his free will.

"I don't feel so hot," he said slowly. "I think...I think I wanna go to sleep."

And maybe when he woke up, this would have been an awful dream.

Of course Leonardo was the one to help him to his feet, the dutiful brother holding him at the elbow, the hovering guard keeping his prisoner in check.

"Leonardo."

Splinter demanded his attention. Michelangelo almost cried in relief. Leonardo couldn't pretend to be so worried about Michelangelo that he'd disobey Splinter's word. A faint hiss of drawn breath, a momentary tightening on his brother's arm...and then Leonardo stood straight.

"Donatello, could you make sure Mikey's okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

Donatello was already up, putting one hand on his little brother's forehead, then under his cheek.

"Hm. You do feel a little hot. Head upstairs, I'll get some chicken soup just in case."

Michelangelo nodded, already moving quickly toward his room. He would go inside, crawl into his bed, pull the blankets up and maybe that could keep the monsters out.

Leonardo's voice followed him.

"And make sure you get some sleep."

Power followed that word. It wasn't a casual hope that Michelangelo would rest. He felt it for what it was. A warning, to sleep and calm down. A slave couldn't raise suspicion on the master.

"Sure," he said, just as casual, just as submissive.

Leonardo watched him for a moment longer, then sat again and turned toward his father.

"Yes?"

Nothing but steel in both of their looks. Leonardo faced Splinter as if he faced a deadly enemy. This was the one person he didn't think he could simply command. If Raphael was strong-willed enough to fight back, then Splinter would likely shrug off any attack. Worse, a frontal assault would mean that his siblings would see, and then he would be in a four way fight. He didn't think he could win, and if he did? Splinter would never yield, knowing it meant seeing three sons enthralled to the fourth. Splinter would have to die. His brothers would never forgive him.

And what did Splinter know? He clearly suspected something, but he couldn't have concrete clues. Just Leonardo's off behavior, his sudden deceits and disobedience. Leonardo, who always strove to do his best, now closed, guarded and nearly hostile. Who met his looks with suspicion and mistrust.

Leonardo only rarely tried to slip his new power and tricks past his father. Splinter seemed all too capable of seeing through the shadows, through the mist, to see the soul of his son in the darkness.

"You were not in your room all of last night," Splinter said, lifting a hand to forestall Leonardo's instant lie. "I did not see you go, nor did I see your return. Nevertheless, you left the lair for some time."

"Busted..." Raphael snickered behind a plate, finishing off Michelangelo's portion.

Leonardo glared at his sibling, but it was wasted as Raphael couldn't see him. He forcibly bit down on his growing anger, refusing to let himself give into the urge to simply kill the threat and be done with it. The unfairness of it galled him. Here he sat with nightmare power, and instead he had to practically sit on his hands so he wouldn't act rashly. How many vampires had to live under the nose of a hunter?

"I am...sorry, master."

Leonardo had to force the words out of himself. He visibly struggled not with the fake apology but with the honorific. A vampire only had one master, and it galled him to acknowledge Splinter, even in a lie.

"I wanted to make sure that our alarms were still set. That nothing had triggered them."

Splinter gave no sign of believing him.

"You know that all of you are forbidden from leaving except with another at your side." His tail twitched. "Preferably all together, if necessary."

Leonardo tensed. Suddenly that rule held a different purpose. Keeping them together, even in pairs, meant that Leonardo could never leave alone. Of course he could simply force whoever he was with to forget, or better yet, to remain behind. But if Splinter followed... Worse, if something happened to his brother while Leonardo left to feed...

"I didn't think that included the tunnels around us," Leonardo said. He inclined his head by way of apology. "It won't happen again."

"I am glad to hear it," Splinter said, but without any of the warmth or feeling he normally had after scolding one of them. "I would not like to have to mistrust my eldest son."

Leonardo didn't know how to respond to that. So he took the excuse Raphael gave him, glaring at his snickers. Murmuring that he wanted to look in after Michelangelo, Leonardo left the table, not caring that his plate was obviously untouched.


	9. Chapter 9

His little brother lay on his bed, curled up on his side, eyes closed. Leonardo slipped inside and sat down on the floor, gently taking his hand.

Michelangelo startled, yanking away his hand and scooting back into the wall. His eyes opened wide as he drew in a breath.

"Don't scream," Leonardo ordered.

Michelangelo continued to breathe deep, gasping in breaths too quickly. He shook his head once, squeezing his eyes shut again.

"Tell me you didn't do it," Michelangelo whispered.

Leonardo tilted his head. "Didn't do what?"

"Those attacks," Michelangelo said. "Above ground. Those people, with all the blood."

Michelangelo glanced at the door. Cracked open just an inch, he could see past the living room into the kitchen. Donatello moved around in the kitchen, and Raphael was pulling something out of the refrigerator—

The door closed by itself.

Beside them on the nightstand, the lamp came on without either of them touching it.

Whimpering once, Michelangelo closed his eyes again.

"Even if it's a lie," he whispered, barely audible. "Please. Tell me you didn't—"

"I did," Leonardo said. Flat. Troubled but not overly concerned with his brother's reaction.

He reached over his brother, pulling the blanket over his shoulder, caressing his cheek with the back of his hand. Something glistened at the corner of Michelangelo's eye. When he touched it, his fingertip came back damp.

"Why are you so sad?" Leonardo murmured.

Michelangelo turned his head away from Leonardo's hand.

"You killed all those people," he whispered. "And you don't care. They died so bad and you don't care."

"I needed to eat," Leonardo said.

"I thought you were chowing down on us," Michelangelo said. "You were drinking my blood."

"I take a mouthful here and there," Leonardo said easily, reaching over him again to pet his cheek. "But I can't feed just on you three. You'll get weak."

"You didn't have to kill them."

"I was hungry," he said. "They didn't suffer, if that's what you're worried about. They were dead before they knew what hit them. Well, the last one had time to scream, but—"

A strained whimper escaped Michelangelo, cutting him off.

"Mikey?"

"Listen to you." Michelangelo pressed his face into his pillow, muffling his choked sobs. "You murdered them. You ate them. You're not my brother."

Leonardo hissed. "Don't you—"

"Leo would've cared. My big brother would've cared. He would've gone to kill whatever was killing people."

"Maybe you didn't know me as well as you thought." Leonardo's look darkened as he leaned close. "If it's between hurting you or killing humans, I'll kill a thousand of them to keep you safe."

"Don't. Just don't." Michelangelo shook his head, refusing to look at him, refusing to argue. "Please just don't kill anymore."

A chuckle. "If you know a way to drink a human dry without killing them..."

"Would you?" Michelangelo lifted his head too fast, shuddering with uneven breaths.

"What?" Leonardo frowned.

"Would you? Not kill people, I mean." Michelangelo swallowed once. "If we could find a way, would you not kill people?"

Leonardo leaned back, starting to shake his head. But his little brother's eyes were wide and too bright, tear tracks down his face. Michelangelo stared at him as if wracked with fever, as if everything in the world balanced on this answer. Leonardo shut his mouth, turning away and sighing.

"If..."

He grit his teeth. So many compromises for his family, so many ways he bent further and further backward to give in to their wants. To bargain with such a basic requirement, the one precious thing he needed to survive. It took so much of himself warring against his hunger to nod once.

"If I could stomach it. If it made you happy."

Michelangelo dragged his hand over his eyes, sniffling hard. He looked at his brother, nodding.

"Okay." He forced a tiny smile that broke and faded again. "I'll try to think of something. Before you...I mean, before you have to. Do that. Again."

Leonardo sighed out, sitting back against the wall and staring past his brother's posters of his various video games. Everything in the room was so cheerful and bright, colorful despite the darkness. His brother's quiet, shallow sobs only made the room feel smaller.

"I'll...hold off." Leonardo pressed his hand to his temple, although it did nothing for his growing headache. "You have time."

"...how much?"

"I ate last night, so...maybe four, five days?"

Michelangelo groaned, sitting back on his bed. "I have to figure this out in five days."

"Maybe five days," Leonardo said. "I won't hold back so long that I risk biting you."

"You already bite us," Michelangelo said.

"No." Leonardo scowled to himself. "I don't."

"You drank—"

"I took a taste." Leonardo glared up at him, both gratified and exasperated to see his brother cringe back. "A mouthful. That's it. That's nothing like what I got from those humans."

Michelangelo didn't answer him directly, although he muttered "people" under his breath.

"I need a lot more than my small bits from you," Leonardo said. "I will never take more than that from you."

"Maybe a tiny bit more?" Michelangelo asked, then rushed the rest out as his brother narrowed his eyes. "Just to string yourself out a little more. Give me another day, a little more time. I know it can't be as much as...as what you did. Five people...that's like what, six gallons?"

Leonardo's mouth quirked slightly.

"Maybe."

"'Maybe'?" Michelangelo sat straighter, crossing his legs. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe...I hit them harder than I needed to." Leonardo shrugged. "I had to kill them before they started yelling."

"And the other one?" Michelangelo demanded, disgusted. "The one today? Did you have to stop them from yelling, too? Shouldn't that tide you over for more than a couple days?"

Leonardo rolled his eyes. "Mikey...you've been with me all day."

"Yeah, so?"

Michelangelo tried to keep up his angry look, knowing that once it broke, he would be sunk, that he'd give into the feeling that he'd lost his brother, that Leonardo was gone and the thing that looked like him would be all that was left, little more than a demon demanding to hold him.

He paused. Leonardo had been with him since breakfast, first in the shower and then in his room. Leonardo hadn't left the lair since the night. And since the attack had happened during the day...

"It wasn't you," he whispered.

"I'm hardly the only monster in New York," Leonardo muttered. "I didn't argue with Splinter keeping us in for a reason. I won't risk you getting hurt. I can go hunting on my own."

"We can't stay inside forever," Michelangelo started, but they both heard the heavy clang of a pot in the kitchen. Donatello was finishing up and would be coming inside soon, and Michelangelo had to ask for something else before that happened.

He looked at his brother, Leonardo turned his head just so, reminding Michelangelo of nothing so much as a praying mantis.

"Can I tell Donatello?" he asked.

"What?" Leonardo hissed, on his feet in a flash, looming over his brother. "No. No! I already commanded you once."

"He's smart," Michelangelo insisted. "He could figure out something—"

"No—"

"So we can get you blood." Michelangelo winced as Leonardo leaned close. "Please, please, I can't do it alone in time."

"Stop—"

"And you already have me," Michelangelo said. "You were gonna tell him next anyway, right?"

"Stop it!"

Leonardo grabbed Michelangelo's throat, forcing him back down onto the bed. He pressed him against the mattress, snarling as he growled low in his chest.

"You. Tell. No one." Leonardo's command seemed to come from inside Michelangelo's head. "No one. I wasn't even going to tell you, and you want to tell Donatello? So he could experiment on me? Dissect me? Take me apart?"

Michelangelo's eyes were impossibly wide. He grasped Leonardo's wrist, feeling more like it was steel.

"You know he wouldn't—"

"You will not tell anyone." Leonardo took a deep breath. "Not yet. Not until I'm stronger. Do you understand me?"

Michelangelo winced, nodded once.

Letting go, Leonardo stood straight just as the door opened.

"Here we go," Donatello said, coming in. He paused, feeling the tension between his siblings. Michelangelo lay flat on the bed and Leonardo stood just out of arm's reach, aloof. "Um, is everything okay?"

"Fine." Leonardo glanced at his brother. "I'll be back later."

Michelangelo didn't answer except to nod once. He watched his brother leave, finally able to breathe freely.

"Weird." Donatello set down the soup and sat down on the mattress. "You feeling any better? Worse?"

"...I don't have a clue."

Michelangelo sat up, pushing himself back against the pillows. He let Donatello touch his forehead, feeling for fever.

"Hm. It already seems a little better." Donatello handed the bowl to his brother. "Still, better safe than sorry."

Michelangelo didn't argue. Quietly eating, he waited several seconds, listening to the lair around them. With the door open, he saw Leonardo heading to his room. Probably he meant to warm up. Or wait until the night before he tried to leave.

Leonardo could probably hear everything around them. Certainly he could hear if Michelangelo tried to whisper secrets to Donatello. And Michelangelo couldn't whisper anything, not yet. He would gather his thoughts, figure out something. His monster brother was mistaken if he thought he could just command obedience out of him.


	10. Chapter 10

Leonardo sat amongst his candles, eyes shut. His jaw clenched. His hands lay resting upon his crossed legs, but they were balled into tight fists.

His brother had forced horrible memories back in his mind, and now Leonardo had to deal with them.

Like his own victims, he didn't remember the first assault that had taken him down. Forced onto the alley's broken pavement, his face pressed against the hard gravel, something had wrenched his arms behind his shell as if he were a doll to be moved and positioned.

Low laughter echoed beside his head.

And then a dozen needles drove down into his throat.

"Don't scream."

His voice froze even as his mouth opened.

The pain flared white hot, radiating out to his whole body. When he felt himself being hauled back onto his knees, the needles driving down for another attack, he blacked out.

And woke on a cold floor.

Shivering, drawing in shuddering breaths, Leonardo lay still for several seconds, several minutes. His whole body felt like heavy ice. He tried to move his arm, tried to lift his hand. Nothing.

The light here was bright, so bright that his eyes stung. It was a struggle to blink. The room was still blazing even behind his eyelids. He panted for breath, so tired that lying still took every ounce of energy.

Slowly the room came more into focus. The white blur faded into shapes and shadows. And lines on the floor. They were faint, but he could make out faint black lines radiating outward. Tiles, white tiles in a room of white walls. And dark splashes all around him. The copper smell in the room was thick, cloying. He could taste blood in the back of his throat simply from the smell, and when he tried to push himself up—

Pain burned in his throat and shoulder. He lay still again, waiting for it to fade. If he could take just a few minutes, gather his senses, build up his determination again, then he could move. He could stand.

Moving meant pain. Not moving only lessened the pain. Somewhere out of sight, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm. He couldn't tell how long he lay there. He was sure he blacked out at least once more. Only after an eternity passed did he finally gather his legs underneath himself, bring his arms close and try to push himself up.

The blood beneath him had dried. He sat straight, ashamed at the strained sound that escaped him. Something was wrong. He didn't feel like he was bleeding, but he felt like he could lie down forever, like he could sink into the earth and close his eyes.

With his head low, his shoulders slumped, he glanced sideways at the room again. Steel tables with thin legs and steel trays. A steel sink. White cabinets. With each heavy breath, he swayed unsteadily, his head tilting hard to the right, favoring the wound where he had been stabbed.

He leaned hard against the table, a hand protectively against his throat. One leg up. Then the other. His head drooped again, and his gaze swept the room.

A body lay on the table.

Human, male, probably in his 30s or 50s—Leonardo found it so hard to tell human ages.

Blood covered the man's mouth, trailing down his throat and splattering most of his chest. The eyes stared at nothing, dry and pale and sunken in their sockets. The mouth hung slack. Absolutely motionless, because of the blood, it reminded Leonardo of nothing more than a grocery store slab of meat.

Nausea rolled over him. He would have gone to his knees to throw up but he held onto the table, leaning his weight against the hard edge and thankful that it didn't slide away. If he'd fallen, he didn't think he could drag himself back to his feet again.

Still silence. Pressing his hand to his wounded throat, he looked around again. Now he noticed the vinyl curtains hanging off one side, pooled on the floor. There were no windows, just a long crack down one wall. A wheelchair on its side. A steel IV stand fallen on top of it. And a door.

Aches flared up through his back, feeling like bits of bone jutting out of his spine as he risked moving away from the table. He stumbled, one hand around his waist, and took small steps across the blood strewn floor.

When he grasped the door handle, resting his weight against it, he found it locked. Testing it, he raised his fist to pound on the door. Pausing, he held his hand up for a long moment, then let his hand drop. Whatever had attacked him might be outside. Or humans. Everything was a threat. He would have to save himself.

His hand slid down to his belt. No shellcell. He was on his own.

But he did have lockpicks. Falling to his knees, he coughed and found blood coloring his breath in a fine mist. Bleeding on the inside. He didn't have much time before he'd pass out again. He dug out his first pick and struggled to slide the thin steel in the lock. His hand shook so badly that the steel snapped in his fingers, falling to the floor in two pieces.

Gasping out in exhaustion, he bowed his head for a moment, trying to steady himself. Then took his next lockpick and tried again. This time he felt the internal mechanism begin to turn, felt the tumblers lift, turned a little more, and he strained to keep his arm up and not put so much weight on the—

The lockpick snapped.

"Goddammit, please," he hissed, throwing aside the fragments.

He blinked hard but the blur in his eyes was creeping back. He would pass out again soon. It didn't help that he had to lean so much, had to hold the lockpick to keep his hand up.

One more lockpick. He slid it in, pressing himself against the cold door to rest his arm against it. He felt the pick starting to bend and grabbed his wristband between his teeth, holding his hand steady. The lock turned, clicked, and the handle finally moved.

With a gasp of disbelief, he leaned back, bringing the door open—

A hand lay flat against the door and pushed it shut again.

Startled, Leonardo fell sideways on the floor, turning on his shell. His hand went for his sword, then to his side for his knife. Nothing. Looking up, his breath caught.

The man he'd thought was dead now stood over him. The face was just as slack, the eyes pale and colorless, and one arm hung at a limp angle. It shouldn't move—it was still very obviously a corpse—

And it shuddered with the same low chuckle Leonardo had heard before.

He couldn't scream. Pushing himself back, coughing even more blood now, Leonardo stared as the body turned, its other hand braced against the wall, leaning too far over as it took a shaky step.

Except for the rasp of his own breathing, the drip of water somewhere out of sight, Leonardo could hear nothing.

The body moved so fast that Leonardo thought that he'd passed out briefly. One moment it was standing, the next it had fallen over him, crushing him flat against the floor. The watery eyes were so close, the stench of decayed blood so strong, and its mouth opened to rows of needles—bone white and covered in old gore, black stained red and sinking into him again, piercing deep into Leonardo's throat.

He opened his mouth, unable to breathe. He convulsively jerked, little more than reflexes as he felt himself going limp. Blood poured from his mouth, flowing from the wounds inside himself.

The bright light of the room faded, dimmed to a twilight. He was going to die here, and his last thought was that his brothers would never know what happened to him. The pain in his throat dwindled—the obscene sounds from the monster above him faded—

His mouth suddenly filled with blood, accompanied with such pain that it snapped him back to his senses. His tongue and the inside of his mouth felt slashed to ribbons. His teeth had shifted, rearranging themselves, turning into dozens of little knives, little needles, and he knew, without seeing, that his teeth were mere inches from his enemy's throat.

He'd lifted his head before he realized it, instinctively biting down on the body's neck. Thick, sour bile met his mouth, but the body now lost its grip, shaking as he dug deeper and deeper. It hadn't bitten so deeply into him, but now he attacked with all the force he could wield behind this new weapon he didn't understand.

Bone cracked under his teeth, brittle and dry, and he forced his head up without withdrawing his fangs. A huge gouge of flesh came after, spit aside as the body screamed and tried to mouth words. Leonardo bent forward and pushed his fangs in again, closer to the neck. This time, when he pulled away, the body's head came with him, rolling across the floor like a lump of rotted meat.

The body shook in its death throes. With a broken gasp, Leonardo half-rolled, throwing it off of himself, then turned on his hands and coughed out the disgusting mouthfuls of flesh he'd taken.

In his heart, he felt none of the satisfaction of victory. Something was wrong. He couldn't tell, but something deep inside was wrong. He couldn't contact his brothers. He couldn't escape before he would pass out again. A cold chill rushed through him, freezing him to the core.

No, not pass out.

He tried to call out, to scream. He could no longer breathe.

Falling back to the floor, coughing out blood that added to the pool around him, he watched the room turn black. His heartbeats raced in his ears, then slowed. Became sluggish. Died completely. His body lay still. Breath rattled out of his chest.

He wouldn't see his family again.

The pain finally left.

And then nothing.

...

Sometime later, Leonardo sat up.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

A candle guttered, drowning in its melted wax. Leonardo frowned and glanced at it as if personally offended. He wasn't finished with his meditation...but still he stood up and poured the candle out on the growing accumulation of wax on the brass holders.

"Dude..."

Raphael's voice startled him so that he dropped the candle. It clattered to the floor and rolled awkwardly against the door frame. With a frown, Raphael bent and picked it up.

"You okay?" Raphael offered the candle back. "I know he yelled at you, but you never take it that hard."

"I'm..." Leonardo swallowed once and took the candle, setting it back in place. "It's all right. I'm just...tired."

"Leo." Raphael put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "You're crying."

"Wha...?"

Leonardo put his hand to his eye and felt a faint drop at the corner. Brushing it hastily, he turned around and blinked hard, wiping his eyes with the back of his wristband.

"Yeah, your eyes are kinda bloodshot," Raphael said. He closed the door behind himself and came in another step. "You sure you're just tired? You've been acting a little weird lately."

Knowing he was only making it worse and clueless as to how to make it better, Leonardo busied himself with the candles that had blown out when Raphael opened the door. He had a box of matches, still full since he hadn't used it for a week, and he took one out. Or would have, if his hands hadn't been shaking.

The box dropped, spilling matches across the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the table holding rows of candles, covering his face with his free hand.

Raphael's hands came down over his shoulders. The sense of his brother behind him radiated so much warmth, so much heat under his palms, such an overwhelming sense of strength.

"What's wrong? You're usually harder to set off than this."

When Leonardo didn't answer, Raphael turned him around, still holding him by the shoulders. How easily it would have been to break free and stop him. But Leonardo allowed the soft handling, let Raphael cup his face.

"You don't feel hot," Raphael murmured, searching for a fever. "Thought maybe you had what Mikey's got, but..."

Leonardo looked up, and Raphael's hand followed his motion, almost cradling him as they stared into each other.

His brother was nearly a head taller, certainly a shoulder broader. Raphael still groaned in his sleep, suffering growing pains that sometimes woke him in the middle of the night. For years, Leonardo had felt nothing but envy. He would never be as tall, as built. Smaller, thinner, more precise, suited to more delicate work. A poisoned throwing star under Raphael's tank tread.

And now...?

He could kill his brother with one bite.

The sudden image in his mind made him flinch. He was already so close to Raphael—he pressed against him, one shoulder up, tucking his face down even as he cringed at how weak he felt. At forcing this on his brother. A late night tryst that Raphael would forget was nothing compared to this, demanding comfort for something Raphael couldn't understand.

Raphael froze, surprised at his brother, then slowly embraced him, holding him close. A host of expressions crossed his face. What was wrong? Why would Leonardo reveal this when they both went to such lengths to clamp down on their emotions around each other? It couldn't just have been Splinter, his worry over Michelangelo.

"Talk to me," Raphael said. "Lemme help ya. I know I piss ya off, but...hell, Leo."

I want to drink you down, Leonardo thought, in every way. And it'll all change. It's all changing so fast. I can't change this fast. I can't...

Raphael's hand came under his chin, made him look up. To Leonardo's relief, he managed to force back any tears. Instead he felt the growing lure between them, the way they were only inches apart. With just a tiny amount of power, he could nudge Raphael to lower his head just a little, to press their mouths together—

They were kissing before he could muster his thoughts.

Nothing like his forced commands, pulling out of Raphael all the performance of a wanton harlot. This was tentative. Nervous. Chaste, even. As if Raphael hadn't been with his brothers before this night.

Leonardo leaned back in surprise, his eyes wide. "Raph...?"

"Aw geez." Raphael took a step back, turning red as he looked away. "Sorry, I didn't...I mean, hell, I just thought maybe...I should go—"

"No!"

Leonardo grabbed him too hard, wincing as Raphael grunted. He relaxed his grip but didn't let go. If the door hadn't been closed, he would have slammed it from where he stood half a room away. Now that the words were out between them, he couldn't let this chance slip away.

"I—" Leonardo fumbled. "No, you thought right. I thought...I dream about this. I just didn't..."

He floundered, not sure how to respond. Part of him wanted to simply command a further kiss, a taste, to let blood spill across the sheets. The rest of him didn't know what to do if he didn't use any power.

And Michelangelo wanted him to conserve that power and hold off killing as long as he could. He'd made a promise.

"You never said my name," Leonardo whispered, nothing else to say. "At night. Sometimes Donatello. Michelangelo."

He shrugged.

"Never mine."

Raphael snorted, still flushed red. "You were eavesdropping? You little creeper. You didn't have to wait for a midnight invitation, freak."

Leonardo laughed despite himself.

"I didn't..." He took a long breath. "It's been a nightmare. And then...I didn't..."

"Leo?"

He looked up at Raphael again. The room was warm, and the lair was safe, and Raphael was here. Raphael wanted him. Raphael would let him...if he didn't rush this. He wouldn't hurt his brother. He would let Raphael take the lead this time.

A sense of relief flooded him. After all, if Raphael didn't like it or changed his mind, Leonardo could make him forget.

And then he could try again later.

"Raphael..."

He put his hands around his brother's face, guiding him down for another kiss. Raphael's hands came to his waist, then pulled him close.

Leonardo melted into him, filled with life and warmth. Raphael brought them down to the floor, laying Leonardo out against the mat, pressing kisses to his throat while stroking his thighs, teasing his legs apart. Leonardo put his hand to his mouth, stopping himself from crying out.

He would do anything to keep this safe. Nothing would hurt his brothers. Nothing would control them. Except himself.

As Raphael gathered him up in his arms, Leonardo had the final thought of another monster roaming in New York, attacking humans as he himself had been assaulted.

He would need to go hunting. But later.

And then Raphael entered him, and all thought fled as he was filled with warmth from within as well.


	12. Chapter 12

Leonardo drowsed, safely wrapped in his brother's arms. He peered through half-lidded eyes, watching the candle flames flicker and dim and grow, little halos of light over Raphael's silhouette. He nestled closer, pressing a kiss to his brother's throat, and felt Raphael hold him a little tighter.

He could have lay like this forever, if only that was possible. Warm, but more than that. Safe. After his meditation and memories, he burrowed deep into the sense of protection that his brother offered. Bigger, bulkier, almost able to wrap him up in an embrace...Raphael was everything he'd wanted a week ago.

He reassured himself in that shelter...even if it was a lie.

Resentment colored his thoughts.

Just an ounce of this, just one of his brothers, just one of them with him that night, and he wouldn't have changed. He'd be laughing easily with them, not play acting. He'd be quietly longing for them each night, not realizing they longed for each other, and eventually they might have all revealed their secrets, fumbling and clumsy teenagers awkward with their own love.

Had he left them behind in their race? Had they outrun him? Raphael hadn't been there. Donatello hadn't come. Michelangelo had been nowhere nearby. Whatever the outcome, only a monster had found him.

"We tried to find you—"

"—your communicator was on the ground—"

"—what happened?"

He pushed that memory down, burying it deep. Their looks of disgust when they saw him, the blood, the strings of gore still caught on his needle fangs. How his first command had been panicked and desperate and hurt at their rejection.

The attack wasn't their fault. He knew his bitter spite wasn't fair to them. But still. He'd needed their help and they hadn't been there.

"You okay?" Raphael whispered, muffled by sleep. "You're shaking. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," Leonardo said. "Bad dreams."

They lay still, with Raphael moving one hand along Leonardo's body, exploring the line of his shell, cupping his thigh to hold him close. Raphael's heart beat steadily, calmly, assured of its own strength and unafraid of anything in the world. Leonardo listened as he lightly traced his fingertips over Raphael's collar bone, catching the faint sound of sweet blood flowing through his brother.

He breathed deep. His senses expanded. He heard Michelangelo asleep in his bed. Heard Donatello washing up in the kitchen. Heard Splinter in his room, deep in meditation. Was he watching Leonardo from a different plane of awareness? Had he watched Leonardo and Raphael?

He didn't think so. Splinter suspected...something. Perhaps not that the vampire attack had been the doing of his eldest son. Perhaps only a growing love for his brothers that had twisted, or the unease before a student turned on the master. Whatever he thought, Splinter was not certain enough yet to act.

Beyond the lair, water flowed through the vast cisterns of the city, the latest rains gathered and collected to flow away again. It comforted Leonardo, immersed in the center of the city's circulation, New York great machinery moving around him, pouring outward into the dark tunnels and—

Leonardo sat straight. He was on his feet and moving to the door before Raphael even noticed he'd been brushed aside.

"The hell?" Raphael grumbled, pushing himself up on his arms. "What gives?"

"Something's coming." Leonardo barely remembered to push the door open rather than just moving through it. "It's fast. And it's strong."

"What?" Raphael scrambled to keep up, drawing even with him as Leonardo headed to the lair's entrance. "What's coming?"

Leonardo didn't answer. A thought in the back of his mind told him that he would pay for saying even that much. With no choice, he made himself open the lair as normal and then broke into a sprint. Ignoring Raphael's shout, he raced faster than his brother could, leaving him behind as he rounded a bend.

He felt the same anxiety even when he only barely felt Raphael at the very edges of his senses, well back in the labyrinth of tunnels. Raphael, his whole family, had to be kept safe.

The thing that Leonardo felt was too like himself, far too close to their home and coming closer. Its intent was obvious.

The scent of blood warned him to stop.

This tunnel was long, cramped, an ancient lay of brick and crumbling masonry. No light shone at the far end, but his eyes still caught the shambling steps, the unsteady walk of something on two legs. It stopped, half-turned, faced him.

They regarded each other silently, two monsters in the dark.

And then it rushed forward, its steps too quick, its walk bent with hands before it, eager for prey.


	13. Chapter 13

Michelangelo woke up. He stared at the ceiling for several seconds, not sure why he was awake. Leonardo had ordered him to sleep, and the lingering edges of that command still brushed his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Leonardo had rescinded that command or if Leonardo simply wasn't there anymore.

He sat up, listening intently. To his surprise, Donatello sat against the far wall, staring intently at his tablet. The rest of the lair was silent.

"Where's Leo?"

Michelangelo whispered, barely loud enough for Donatello to hear him.

"I thought you might wake up." Donatello didn't glance away from his screen. The glow gave his face an eerie blue cast.

"Huh?" Michelangelo swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting straight. "You okay?"

"I've been having these odd dreams," Donatello said, still staring at the electric image. "You and me and Raph...me and Leo."

Michelangelo swallowed once, both nervous and feeling the brush of Leonardo's command closing his throat. He uttered the only syllable he was allowed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Donatello tilted the screen. "Embarrassing dreams. Sordid...we're doing things together. And it's nice and good, and I feel so comfortable and safe when it happens. And somehow I know all of you love me. But..."

Michelangelo started to speak, only to have his teeth snap shut of their own will. He winced and put a hand over his mouth, giving a single questioning "mmf?"

"But I can smell blood."

Finally Donatello looked up at Michelangelo. In the overly blue light, he appeared exhausted and drawn.

"And Leonardo is ordering us to do things. We do them, and it's...wonderful. I would totally do it if I was awake and could choose."

His face twisted, closing in on himself. With a shudder, he turned the screen so that Michelangelo could see it.

"But I'm not awake, and I can't say yes."

And Michelangelo gasped, first in surprise, then softer in relief.

His brilliant, unassuming, cunning brother had left his tablet somewhere unobtrusive, out of sight and quietly recording everything that happened in the room. The form of their brother simply emerging from the shadows, Leonardo sitting with him, demanding a kiss that turned into a dagger at his throat—

Michelangelo winced. Seeing it was so much worse than feeling it on his own skin.

—and then Leonardo literally devoured a tiny bit of his brother. Leonardo drew back, not a trace of blood wasted, and then mouthed something in Donatello's ear. The sound was muted, and Michelangelo wondered if they'd be forced to forget again even if the command was just on a digital file.

"I worried about that, too," Donatello said, reading his look. "I'll have to try it out, test it at various ranges. That won't be easy. I'll have to remember what I'm doing and..."

He ran the back of his hand over his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.

"He's not going to let me figure out...whatever this is." He looked up at him. "What's he doing? How is he...? I'm not going crazy, am I?"

Michelangelo pressed his hand tighter against his mouth. Every part of him wanted to speak, but where Leonardo's command to sleep had been weak, hastily given, the command to stay silent had been deliberate. He couldn't think of saying the words without his throat closing up.

Think around it, he told himself. No one's better at talking than you.

So instead of straight lines, he thought in circles. Not vampire—his head pounded at the thought—but blood drinker. Old horror films came to mind. Not blood but wine. Not wine—

"He doesn't drink...wine."

Donatello's brow furrowed in confusion. Michelangelo groaned at the uselessness of it. His brother didn't stay up for the all night movie marathons like Raphael. He needed something tailored to Donatello. Something more mechanical, more machine.

"A siphon," he said, trying to remember the tools in his brother's garage. "A heat sink. Oil dripping out on the floor. Huge patches of it."

Donatello tilted his head, blinking at the string of unrelated words. As Michelangelo poured out more nonsense, an idea took hold. Donatello looked down at the recording as it played again, Leonardo giving the command.

"He ordered you not to say something," Donatello realized. His eyes widened. "He made you stay quiet."

Michelangelo's voice died, but he nodded quickly. He looked around, trying to find something he could use to write, but even as Donatello fished out a pen from his belt, Michelangelo's hands went numb. He gasped at the thoroughness of the command. He wouldn't be writing any clues.

Circles, he told himself. Circles, think in circles, think—

"Nom Wah Tea Parlor," he said. "To the Back Room bar."

Donatello's eyes narrowed. That was one of the ways they took to come home, a long route, winding past several businesses, especially if they had to dodge through the lit streets to the back alleys. That would take them through the lowest east side, right through—

"Spilled oil everywhere," Michelangelo said. "Your garage...it's so messy sometimes. It's even up on the walls—"

He coughed. Apparently that was too close to the truth. It didn't matter. Donatello had been fed enough clues. He saw it in the manic light behind his eyes, piecing together tiny details to come up with one horrible answer.

"The attack on those people," Donatello whispered. "Not oil...not wine. Blood."

Donatello looked up at his brother.

"Vampire?" he asked, disbelieving.

Now Michelangelo nodded once. And gasped as if coming out of deep water.

The power inside of him, holding him silent, had simply snapped.

"Oh my god..."

"You felt it too?" Donatello got to his feet, tossing his tablet aside as he grabbed his brother's hand. "Come on."

"What?" Michelangelo followed him in daze, light-headed from his free will suddenly returning to him.

"He won't be gone forever."

Donatello pulled him to the garage, looking over his tools.

"We don't have much time. We have to think."

Michelangelo stared at the expanse of heavy machinery before them. Wire and steel, motors and saws. And in the back, in the lab Donatello had cobbled together for himself, beakers and vials, glowing liquids and acids that bubbled.

"I..." Michelangelo touched his brother's shoulder, lowering his eyes as if confessing a secret. "I don't want to hurt him."

Donatello faced him, his mouth falling into a flat line.

"I can't promise that."

"...I know."

That Raphael was with their brother was unsaid. That Splinter was just in the other room...

Michelangelo said nothing. If this was how Donatello reacted, he could guess at his master's reaction. Desperate hope fluttered in his heart. Donatello hadn't gone to Splinter. Maybe if they could keep it secret, keep it contained, keep their brother under control...

Michelangelo stood look out, watching for any sign of their brother coming home, unable to turn and see whatever Donatello was slowly gathering together.


	14. Chapter 14

In the pitch black tunnel, the fight began silently. Neither spoke, neither snarled. Leonardo simply drove forward, hands outstretched, crashing into his enemy before he could fully see it.

Striking it felt like striking a brick wall, and still it stumbled backward even as Leonardo tumbled to the ground behind it. He rolled twice, digging his fingers into the cracks in the stone, pulling himself to a stop. He came up on all fours, taking a sprinter's stance—legs primed, arms out ready to launch—and shook his head once, flicking away the blood from his forehead.

The thing in front of him turned around, leaning forward to brace itself, and grunted deep, like a wild boar preparing for its own attack.

Leonardo dashed forward again, aiming low, catching its legs against his shoulder. This time the thing toppled over him, and he realized his mistake as it dug its claws into his shin, catching him and holding tight as it bit down on his ankle. Bone crunched between its fangs, wrenched free only with a pained cry as Leonardo threw himself to one side, scrambling to send a vicious kick to its head. Something cracked underfoot as he pulled away, stumbling back to his feet, unable to put any weight on his leg.

Despite the pain, he smiled grimly, glaring at the monster in front of him. It struggled to push itself up, one hand against its head where its skull had broken. A mule-kick like that would have killed a normal fighter. As it was, the creature groaned and used the wall to steady itself, finally rising again.

Leonardo chuckled darkly. "Never fought someone like me, huh?"

It snarled in reply, clearly human enough to understand taunting even if it couldn't answer. He remembered the fangs on the creature that had attacked him. If it had the same mouthful of broken shards for teeth, no wonder it couldn't speak.

He wiped the back of his hand across his brow. Taunts aside, the monster had drawn first blood. He wouldn't take it lightly.

Slowly, more cautious now, it took an audible breath and steadied itself again, squaring its shoulders. As hard to see as a smear of ink on coal, it put both hands out, blocking any passage beside it. If Leonardo attacked in another straight rush, it would try to keep him from getting behind it.

Leonardo realized he was at a disadvantage. He could change into mist or shadow, but the wound on his ankle refused to change, locking him into one form. If he couldn't transform himself, he had to keep out of range of the thing's jaws.

"Leo! Where are ya?"

He tensed. He'd forgotten Raphael coming after him. The maze of tunnels wouldn't keep him lost forever. They knew these nearby routes by heart. The fight had to end in the next few minutes.

It charged again, not nearly as fast but in deliberate inexorable steps. Leonardo backed up, stepping into rainwater that came to his knees, leaves and tiny stones and gravel sliding underfoot. He snarled, trying to intimidate the other thing, too aware that he didn't know its strength.

He lunged forward, not trying to tackle it but rather to slam his fist into its chest. He felt its ribs snap under his hand, collapsing into its lungs, but just as quickly, it had grabbed his wrist in both hands and pulled forward.

Too late, he realized his second mistake.

A vampire wanted to pull in its prey. A ninja's instinct to follow through with a strike would only bring him close enough for—

Its fangs, jagged and sharp and far too many, sank into his forearm.

He screamed, trying to push against it, finding it as strong as the stone around them.

The slick stones sent him sliding backward, and it eagerly fell over him, pinning him down with a body that felt heavier than lead.

"Dammit, answer me!"

Close, too close—Raphael had found them far too soon. Smothering his cry, Leonardo cracked his neck back, fighting the water around him to see the other end of the tunnel. A ray of light bobbed in the darkness—his brother must have brought a flashlight—

Looking back had been yet another a mistake. The thing on him stopped biting his arm and grabbed his shoulders, dragging itself closer to his throat. He managed to put his hands out, catching its neck on his arm and holding it at bay.

Its hands tightened on his shoulders until his collar bones broke, his shell cracked. The teeth audibly sliced the air, diving at his throat again and again. The rank smell of death and dried blood came at him, heavy snarls that drowned out his brother's voice.

"Leo!"

The flashlight filled the tunnel, sweeping down to the far end and then focusing on the battle on the ground, and finally Leonardo saw his enemy.

White, all white, with a shock of hair like a mane around its head. White eyes in dead white skin edged with gray, and white teeth turned black with blood and gore. Its skin covered its body loosely, as if it would slough off, but the muscles underneath were like whipcord.

Leonardo froze, seeing again the same death that had taken him before—a different monster but the same teeth, the same dead eyes, the same heavy weight trapping him just moments before its jaws would close on him—he gasped, wanted to scream but couldn't.

It looked up and saw Raphael.

The pressure released from his shoulders, and suddenly Leonardo was holding onto the vampire. It tried to lunge, and he hooked his injured foot over its legs, pinning it on top of himself.

The sound of Raphael drawing his sai—panic drowned out Leonardo's own fear. His brother couldn't fight this. No one could—

It slipped his hold, dragging out of his hands and skittering past him toward Raphael. It snarled, making horrific sounds in its throat as it rushed toward an easy feast—

"Holy—"

Leonardo grabbed its leg as it passed by, hanging on only by force of will. He slowed it just enough that it stopped in frustration, turning to swipe at his face. Instead he caught its wrist and climbed up on top of it, drawing his knife and forcing the blade down into its sunken chest, down into its heart.

With a howl of pain, it grabbed the hilt and yanked out the blade, flinging it away.

With its arm left outstretched, though, Leonardo took the opening. Pain filled his mouth, his teeth reshaping themselves, almost not in time as he caught the vampire's throat.

Blood, not old but fresh, strong, thick like oil, welled up in his mouth and all but flooded through him. His ankle mended. He put his hands on its shoulders to hold it still. When its hands tried to grip his throat, he pulled at the shoulder until its arm tore off.

Someone was calling his name.

How fragile it truly was! Like paper ripping under his fingers, like brittle stone snapping in half, the creature under him began to come apart. It howled, no longer in fury but in fear, pounding weakly on his side.

Leonardo felt the pain in his back and front fade. Anything broken or cracked had healed.

Someone was calling his name.

He drank deep, and when the blood slowed, he lifted his head and bit down again, bringing a fresh gout. It didn't taste like the sweet blood of his brothers—not warm, alive, or comforting. This was cold, thick, sluggish, but full of strength and power.

Someone was calling his name.

By the time he was finished, he had bitten down into the vampire's throat, his teeth rending the flesh like saw blades until its head hung canted, nearly off the thing's shoulders. Spine and bone were sliced to pieces. Only when the blood refused to come anymore did he stop, lifting just enough to take a long, deep breath.

He put his hand to the water, splashing his face, not caring that the water was dirty. The blood came away, and slowly his teeth became something recognizable. He spit gore and bone, rocked with heavy breaths as he pushed himself, sitting slumped on its body.

Someone was calling—"Leo?"

He'd forgotten Raphael. In his bloodlust, he'd forgotten he wasn't alone and that the flashlight was a spotlight on him.

Raphael looked down at him with wide eyes, backed against the wall. One hand still held his sai, upraised in a block.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Leonardo closed his eyes.

Raphael had seen.

He'd seen everything.

"Raph—"

"What the hell?" Raphael gasped, taking a step back, stumbling on the slick stone. "What the hell was that? Leo? What the hell just happened? Oh my god, you tore its head off! You tore it apart! Leo! What the hell—?

His brother's heart raced a frantic gallop. The flashlight shook in his trembling hand. Leonardo inwardly quailed. He should never have heard the sounds coming from his brother, not in his brave, stupidly stubborn brother. This wasn't right.

"I didn't want you to see this," he whispered, more to himself than his brother. He turned his look away, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Goddammit answer me! What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?"

The panicked yelling wouldn't stop. Leonardo squeezed his eyes shut, putting his free hand on the wall to steady himself.

The same screaming as when he'd come back, all of his brothers screaming and scrambling to run away from him.

Leonardo looked up at him and drew up his strength, all hesitation and regret stomped on. He had no time to let himself feel a luxury like guilt.

"Forget."

Raphael stuttered still, his voice dying in his throat as if strangled. He stared at Leonardo for a moment, blinking hard. He groaned, shook his head once.

"Wait...no...no, something's wrong..."

"Forget."

Leonardo came up to his feet, coming closer to Raphael. He took the flashlight from his slack grasp, turning it off and sliding it back in Raphael's belt.

"Leo? What's going on?" Fear still colored Raphael's voice, his voice came in quick gasps. "What...something just happened, but I can't..."

Leonardo cursed himself. He could command the mind but his brother's fear and adrenaline would not be so easily swayed. He put an arm around his brother, turning him from the mutilated body, making him walk back the way they'd come.

"Forget."

Raphael stumbled, coughing once. In the lightless tunnels, Leonardo maneuvered his brother down the quickest route home. If he was lucky, the familiar lights and sounds of the lair would reassure him. Commanding his brother like this took too much concentration—although healed, he found himself breathing hard, leaning more and more on Raphael.

To his relief, Raphael's fear was unfocused. His brother put an arm around him, holding him close, supporting him as they went home.

"Forget."

"Where are we?" Raphael whispered. "I can't see nothing."

"We were in a fight," Leonardo said, cleaving to the truth, too tired to lie. "We heard something, we went out to fight it...it's dead."

"Why can't I see—?"

"'Cause the lights don't work this far from the lair," Leonardo said. "I've got us going the right way. We'll be home in a minute."

"Oh."

Raphael held Leonardo closer than he needed, almost hugging him as they walked. Leonardo soaked up all his warmth, the sensations of being clasped close.

Was that thing his future? So white that it reeked of disease and death, powerful but animalistic. Would he become a threat to his siblings? He leaned more heavily on Raphael. His limbs felt so heavy that he had to fight for every step.

"It smells like blood," Raphael said. "I think I remember...you were fighting it. And you were...you were...Leo—"

"Forget."

"No, Leo—you—"

"Forget!"

Leonardo put so much force into the command that Raphael stumbled, going to one knee. Leonardo grimaced, helping Raphael back to his feet.

"Come on," he said softly. "You're safe. Everything's okay."

"...okay..."

Gritting his teeth, Leonardo cursed his brother's strong will, as frustrating as it was a treasured part of Raphael.


	15. Chapter 15

Finally they came to where Donatello had rewired the city's utility lights, spaced far enough that they weren't suspicious, close enough that they could find their way easily. Raphael's heart finally settled into a more rhythmic beat, calming down. The sound made Leonardo feel safer. When they came to the lair's door, Raphael pressed the three bricks that hid the secret key to entering.

The lair was quiet. No television, no video game. Not even the sound of Michelangelo in the kitchen. He didn't hear Splinter, either, and for that he was thankful.

"I'm...I'm gonna go get a beer," Raphael muttered.

Leonardo let him go, unsteady on his own feet. All his strength seemed to flow away—he couldn't stay standing. He slid down to the floor, resting his back against the couch. He drew his legs up, resting his head in his hands.

He had demanded too much of himself. The fight had restored him, but it had taken so much in return. He needed rest. In a moment, he'd catch his breath and return to his room, curl up in the midst of his candles. Maybe he'd have enough strength to light the flames. Maybe he'd take Michelangelo with him. Not for blood—he felt sated enough for the week, and wouldn't his little brother be happy to hear he had more time?

He could simply hold Michelangelo, lay on his shoulder, listen to his idle chatter...

Something soft fell on his head, tumbling over his shoulders and arms.

He lifted his head slowly, too tired to be startled, and found a screen of fabric filtering the light. With a faint sigh, he slid the blanket back, letting it drape over his shoulders. He covered his back and lay it over his legs and feet, a thin shield against the chill inside himself. The blood pooled in his body, only slowly suffusing its power through him, and what power it gave was cold.

"Thanks," he murmured. "But it's not like I need it."

What body heat could a blanket trap around a vampire?

"It was on the radiator in the lab." Michelangelo shuffled uncertainly. "It's warm already."

Leonardo chuckled once, pulling the blanket a little tighter around himself. As Michelangelo said, warm if not as comforting as a brother snuggled against his side. Or brothers. Maybe he wouldn't limit himself to just Michelangelo. Maybe he could bring Donatello...and if he brought two, then it was just fair to summon Raphael as well. That would probably settle any of Raphael's lingering fear, reassure him that he was safe, that they were all safe.

The lab door was open, and Leonardo knew his brothers well enough to recognize Donatello's footsteps as he came close, stopping several feet away.

"Why'd you leave?" Donatello asked.

His brother's voice was tense. Leonardo grimaced and put his head down, feeling his tenuous command on Raphael stretch taut. The order to forget had turned into a headache, flaring up into something even more exhaustive than the fight. Assuaging Donatello's emotion only made keeping Raphael calm that much harder.

"Monster in the tunnels," Leonardo said. "Heard it outside, chased it down. Hell of a fight."

"Not surprised," Donatello said. "You're covered in blood."

Leonardo blinked, looking down at himself. Blood so darkly red that it was almost black, tinting his plastron and throat, his hands and arms. He'd washed himself poorly, only rinsing himself off, and the battle had been so close. He spotted dark footprints on the floor and saw Raphael come back in, a beer in one hand, dark smudges on his side and hands where he'd held Leonardo.

"Dammit..."

"Here."

Donatello flipped something open and turned it to face Leonardo, who looked up. And flinched.

A mirror.

"Don't need to see how rough I look," Leonardo said, grimacing at the blood. "I'll go shower up right now."

"Huh." Donatello glanced at the glass, then back at Leonardo. "And here I thought it wouldn't show anything."

His voice was so flat, so uncharacteristically calm, that Leonardo looked straight at him. The resolve in Donatello's eyes, the cold and calculating focus, was not the expression of a concerned, worried brother. No, Donatello stared at Leonardo like an experiment to isolate, experiment upon, and finally dispose of like broken glass.

Donatello knew.

No, Leonardo thought. I didn't...but then...

His gaze snapped to Michelangelo, who cringed backward away from him as if afraid. And he understood.

"You told him," Leonardo said, his voice dangerously low. His look turned into a glare. "You...how did you tell him?"

Leonardo threw the blanket off, pushing himself up along. His anger turned into energy, allowing him to give into his fears. He just had to muster his remaining strength, gather the will to force them to forget again—

"Ow!"

Raphael yelped, stumbling sideways against the couch, beer rolling across the floor. He put his hand on his head, pressing hard.

Leonardo turned, one hand out even as Donatello came between him and Raphael. Leonardo winced as the command to Raphael pulled to its absolute limit, vibrating like a string, and then snapped.

Reeling back as if hit, one hand against his forehead as the pain flared, Leonardo looked at his brothers in horrified understanding. Across the room, Raphael staggered upright, mouth wide in shock as memories reasserted themselves. Donatello gasped, gripping the back of the couch. Michelangelo looked down at his hands as if expecting to find them covered in blood.

They all looked at Leonardo as his grip finally collapsed, leaving them remembering everything.

* * *

The room, a dim and dusty hospital room, all white edges and antiseptic cabinets. When he sat up, Leonardo saw everything again with new eyes. The body in front of him, now certainly a corpse. The steel gurneys were empty, stained with old blood. The drip in the corner, a broken pipe under the sink—he couldn't see it, but he could pinpoint it in the far corner.

Pushing the body away, he stood and considered the door once again. Still locked, and he no longer had his picks. He didn't think the vampire at his feet had used any keys, and he had no desire to check the body's pockets. He put one hand on the door, wondering if he was strong enough to kick it off its hinges. He closed his eyes. He could hear the echoes of the stairwell outside, knew exactly what the concrete steps looked like, the shape of the iron railing leading down below street level—

Cold wind touched his face. He opened his eyes and found himself outside.

His mouth parted slightly. A terrible suspicion began to rise in him. The door was still closed, and he wanted to go home, nothing more than to leave this behind and go home as if nothing had happened. But if he was right, then he might be putting his brothers in danger.

Nothing mattered more than his brothers.

He put his hand over his heart. Thinking about his brothers made him ache in ways he hadn't before, familiar but more intense. The mere thought of them made him sigh—treasure them, want them, keep them safe.

Including from himself, if need be.

He put his hand on the door and concentrated again, imagining the white tile, the steel gurneys—

The change in the air told him he was inside already.

He put his hand to his shoulder. Cool. Not painfully cold, not natural either. Something was very wrong. He didn't want to think too hard about what it was, instead distracting himself with going through the cabinets and closets. Nothing but a few old tools, medical bandages torn open and left behind. This was nothing but a hide-away, a place for a quick rest and to secret away a body or two.

Body.

He glanced at the corpse was left. He barely remembered the fight, but the evidence of it remained. The bastard's head and right shoulder were nearly split off from the rest of the body, deep bites left at the throat down to the chest. Leonardo put his hand over his mouth. That was his doing. Somehow he'd simply bitten the man nearly in half.

His mouth twisted. This wasn't his fault. Somehow that monster had done this to him, changed him, forced this into him. The deep wounds, the violent bloodletting...Leonardo no longer showed the injuries, but he remembered the attack at least, the bites. The clawing. If he had changed, it was the monster's fault—

As he glared at the body, a thin trail of smoke rose from its back. Then more smoke, and then finally the smolder turned into a flame that spread along the body's clothing, eating slowly into skin and flesh that crackled and burned like paper.

Leonardo watched it until it had turned to ash. He was vaguely aware that he had lit the corpse on fire without understanding how.

And then had no idea what to do. Suicide? That was what usually happened in these stories. But the more he thought of it, the more he rebelled against the idea. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live...or exist, or whatever this could be called now. He wanted to stay with his brothers...

The thought made so much sense that he was halfway home before he realized he was moving, flying, flowing with shadows back toward the lair, and the more shadows there were, the faster he moved. Finally he alighted at the front door, touching the hidden locks, thinking he could simply put this out of mind. He'd been attacked, he'd fought, he'd eventually won—hadn't he done this before?

He realized his mistake when the door opened and his brothers saw him and screamed.

He hadn't returned to his normal shape. A black shadow in the shape of their brother, he stared at them with dark wide circles for eyes, floated several inches from the floor, all the blood of two attacks still clinging to him.

Their voices jumbled together, scrambling away, searching for anything to fight the monster that had appeared in front of them. Their faces twisted into anger and fear, they yelled snappy one-liners meant to bolster their courage even as they fanned out around him.

He slid away from them, afraid to touch them, staying just out of reach. He tried to gather himself together, not sure of how to leave his form of shadow and look normal again. When he felt the edges of himself grow solid, he thought his brothers might stop attacking. Instead they charged forward, seeing not their sibling but a strange deformed copy of him, bent and dark, covered in blood and full of sharp jagged teeth.

"Stop!"

Back against the wall, watching his three beloved brothers coming toward him without any recognition in their eyes, he shouted the only thing he could think of, turning away at the last moment.

After long seconds without any pain, in a silent lair, he let himself look back again.

His brothers stood still, weapons still raised, blinking hard as they tried to understand why they'd come to a halt. They looked at each other, tightening their grip on their weapons. With a shudder, they started forward again.

Pain ignited in Leonardo's head, but he had no time for it. His voice was his weapon, the only one he could wield here. He forced them to stop again, repeating their hesitation. As he drew back along the wall, he struggled to find a word, a simple command, anything to make them stop attacking. Something that would erase the thought of him coming in, the way he'd looked before. Anything to make them—

"Forget."

A dull glaze settled in their eyes. Their weapons lowered slightly, and as they struggled to focus again, Leonardo swept to the side, fleeing into the bathroom and locking the door. He started the shower and rinsed himself off, properly washing away the blood, looking in the mirror to catch the last bits of gore.

It was when he was he was clearing his teeth that he realized that he could see himself in the mirror, that his mouth was normal again. He paused, putting his hand on the glass, staring at himself intently.

He didn't seem different. He didn't even feel all that different.

Except for the blood in his eyes, welling up like tears.

Gasping at how sickening that looked, as if he were carrying an awful disease, he splashed water on his face, rinsing away the blood. More tears came, and the more he fought them, the more came. He began to shake, thinking he couldn't go out in front of his brothers like that. Already they were knocking on the door, asking if he was all right, how he'd snuck by them.

"I—" He coughed once as his voice broke. He took a breath to calm his voice. "I'm fine. I'll be out in a few. It was...messy."

They seemed content with that. Michelangelo promised to have something heated up for him. Raphael snarked that he shouldn't be such a creeper, sneaking around the lair like that. Donatello said he would call Splinter, that he didn't need to keep searching now that Leonardo was home.

"He was worried out of his skull," Donatello said through the door. "Swore he could feel you in trouble."

Leonardo listened to them walk away, staring at himself bleeding out. Leaving the shower to drown his own soft sounds, he curled up on the floor for a long time, colder than the water pouring over him.

After half an hour and an aside from Michelangelo to leave some hot water for the city, Leonardo turned off the shower. The tears were done, and inside he felt hollow and empty, cold and silent. He glanced at himself in the mirror again. No tears. And he wouldn't let himself feel that again. If his control slipped, they would—

He caught himself.

No.

No thinking about that.

Much better to keep them unsuspecting.

Happy.

And as he came out, snarking at his brother that cold showers were better than hot ones, he realized something else.

His brothers were warm.

So warm.


	16. Chapter 16

Donatello's look was cold.

"Don't move," he said, raising an overwrought flashlight as if it were a gun. "At all."

His expression darkening, Leonardo tensed, bracing himself against the wall. "Or else?"

"Modified UV emitter," Donatello said. "Like a little piece of sun in my pocket."

Leonardo hesitated. Impossible to know what that would do to him. He hadn't gone out during the day since his change. The flashlight held steady at his face, with Donatello's finger on the switch. Severe burns? Scorched to ash? Donatello seemed willing to find out.

"So now what?" Leonardo asked. "We stay like this forever?"

Donatello swallowed once, glancing sideways at Michelangelo and Raphael. Both of them looked at him with blank stares. No one spoke, and the silence stretched as Donatello shifted awkwardly.

A tiny laugh escaped out of Leonardo before he could stop himself. In response, Donatello tightened his grip.

"You think this is funny?" Donatello said, his taut voice betraying how scared he was. "You've been eating us and making us forget things and...and doing things with each other, and you just laugh?"

"It's just..." Leonardo didn't try to apologize. "You've never been comfortable when you have to take the lead, and you're not getting any backup from them but you're still trying. It's adorable."

Leonardo tilted his head, covering his mouth with his hand as he smiled.

That was apparently too much movement. Donatello flicked on the light, shining it at full intensity over Leonardo. Michelangelo shrieked involuntarily, startling back, and Raphael stood straight, finally wrapping his mind around what was going on.

A faint, faint tingle spread over Leonardo. Tiny wisps of smoke came from his skin, so thin that they were only barely visible. He raised his hands, looking over himself. No burns, no scorches, no dramatic fading to ash. Not even a blister or red mark.

"I'll admit it's bright," Leonardo said, shielding his eyes. "But that's about it."

Donatello looked back and forth between Leonardo and his light, then smacked the butt end as if the batteries were not connecting. Michelangelo gasped, and then Leonardo was in front of his brother, gently holding his wrists, bringing the light out of his hands as if Donatello were as weak as a child.

"...I didn't think you'd really try to kill me."

Leonardo tossed the light aside, then put his hands on either side of Donatello's head. He stared into his brother's eyes—Donatello looked like a frightened deer, unable to glance away as his breaths came quicker and quicker. Behind them, Michelangelo finally found his voice again.

"Leo, no!"

Michelangelo came closer, stopping short when Leonardo glanced over his shoulder at him.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Leonardo said, exasperated. "I'm just going to make him forget again."

"That's the same thing," Michelangelo said.

"Forgetting to hate me," Leonardo growled, "isn't the same as having your throat bitten out."

"On...on a literal level," Donatello stammered, flinching as Leonardo looked at him again. "No. But metaphysically it's kinda worse."

"So you want to hate me?" Leonardo said, hurt. "What did I—?"

"Let him go!"

Leonardo looked up just as Raphael came over the couch, leaping at him with arms outstretched. As both Michelangelo and Donatello yelled, Leonardo suddenly became as blurry and intangible as mist, standing still as Raphael flew through him and landed on the ground.

"Son of a bitch," Raphael swore, getting back to his feet. "Hold still!"

"I am," Leonardo said and misted again as Raphael dove at him, crashing into and toppling the couch. "Are you done yet?"

The grumbling from behind the couch meant that he wasn't.

Leonardo sighed, turning his attention back to Donatello...and froze.

There were tears in his brother's eyes.

Leonardo's breath caught, and he tried to steel himself to give the command. His brother would stop crying once he'd forgotten all this. Donatello would be happy again if he didn't know. His brother would...

Donatello put his hands on Leonardo's, holding him, his breath shaking as he took the lead from Michelangelo, both of them making giant puppy eyes at him.

"Please," Donatello whispered. "Don't."

The tears stopped him. The terrified whisper stopped him. The hands on his, the way Donatello was still standing, that it was his brother, all brought Leonardo to a standstill. When Donatello's breath hitched, despair filling his look as he was sure he was about to forget again, Leonardo snarled and turned away in a violent swirl of shadow, moving through the air and landing lightly on a large pipe running along the wall, well above reach. He crouched there, his anger and irritation obvious, glaring down at them.

"What the hell have I done to make you this afraid?" he demanded. "I didn't lie—that thing was coming to kill us. I've done nothing to hurt you—"

"You made me forget having sex with all of you!" Donatello yelled.

Raphael looked up from behind the couch. "Wait, what?"

"You don't think that's hurting me?" Donatello said.

"Don't pretend you haven't moaned their names at night," Leonardo said. "Don't pretend you wish it hadn't happened—all I did was give you a suggestion."

"I didn't want to forget," Donatello said. "I didn't want it forced on me."

Leonardo scoffed. "Not like I had to suggest too hard."

Donatello made a sound as if he'd been hit. Leonardo looked away, feeling that he'd hurt him with that remark.

"Besides," Leonardo muttered. "Raphael was the one I had to convince the hardest. Pretty sure I lost control over Mikey halfway through the last time."

Donatello and Raphael both glanced at their brother, who turned faintly red and found an interesting scuffmark on the floor.

"When I let you remember anything," Leonardo said, "you hate me. You tried to kill me—"

"You came in like a monster—" Donatello tried.

"—twice!"

Leonardo waved at the light he'd tossed aside. He considered igniting it, the same as he did with candles and dead bodies, but...it was his brother's creation. Donatello poured everything into his machines. Leonardo turned aside, glaring at the wall instead. Donatello cared more about those damn machines.

"I..."

Donatello faltered, staring at his sullen brother. Leonardo had curled up like a sulking teenager, refusing to look at any of them. His muttering was less frightening and more...pathetic. A child that couldn't get its way and withdrew from the fight.

Only a handful of times had their brother ever done this, usually when his sense of justice was grossly offended. Raphael refused to obey Leonardo's orders, given directly from Splinter. Or their master refused to let Leonardo join in the gang warfare on the surface, so that Leonardo left the lair and vanished for days. Leonardo left the Christmas cheer and came back through a window, then completely disappeared on the farm for weeks. And now he sulked because his brothers refused to be his playthings. This had stopped being a fight between turtles and monsters and become more like one of their family arguments. Except their brother was treating everyone around him like a puppet to be positioned or cut loose from its strings. As toys that refused to forget...

"Leo," Donatello started, straightening his shoulders. "Those four people...did you kill them?"

Leonardo sighed explosively. "Oh god, this again. Yes, I killed four humans. Yes, I drank their blood. Yes, I will do it again."

Donatello pressed his lips flat.

"No you won't," Michelangelo said, turning around to face Donatello. "He won't. He made a promise."

"A promise?" Donatello said.

"He won't kill people," Michelangelo said, looking over his shoulder at Leonardo, looking back at Donatello when his brother didn't respond. "He said he'll let me figure out a way to keep him fed without having to kill people."

"You were gonna figure that out?" Raphael said. "Alone?"

Michelangelo frowned. "I can. I just needed some time."

"Well, you have more time now," Leonardo sighed, leaning against the wall. "I got a lot out of that vampire."

Raphael snorted. "Well, wonderful. Now we have a few more days to keep Dracula from murdering more people."

"Do you even care?" Donatello asked quietly. "Does it even matter to you?"

Leonardo looked down at them, considering his words. Then he took a long breath, forcing himself to relax, and stepped off of the pipe, floating comfortably to the floor. He tried to ignore how his brothers all stepped back, treating him like an animal about to rush.

Instead he walked closer to Donatello, close enough to touch him.

"Do you remember now?" he asked. "How I took that tiny bit of blood from you? Scratched your throat right...here..."

He lightly lay his fingers on Donatello's skin, tracing the spot.

"It wasn't even enough to scar. Do you remember that?"

Donatello swallowed, nodding once.

"I won't do more than that. I care about you." Leonardo let his hand fall. "This part really is my fault. I should've been more honest when I was—" _alive?_ "—well, before."

He shrugged, his expression flat.

"I don't care about humans. That hasn't changed. I just...should've hidden the kill."

Donatello's look went from tentative to incredulous, with his eyes slowly widening as his jaw dropped.

"Are you kidding me?" he whispered. "That's your justification?"

"They aren't you," Leonardo said. "That's all that matters."

"Like hell!"

Donatello cast his glance at his flashlight again, clearly considering if he could reach it before his brother. Leonardo heaved a sigh, more irritated than anything, and by itself, the flashlight rolled off the couch and under the table.

All of them startled, realizing exactly how much more powerful Leonardo was, how much control he had.

"So that's it," Donatello muttered, his breaths tightening, his hands balling into fists. "You get to...kill and eat people, and you expect me to just go along with it?"

Leonardo scoffed. "They eat turtles."

"That's not an excuse!"

"I don't need an excuse," Leonardo snarled. "I don't need your permission. I'll eat when I'm hungry, and if that means killing a human—"

Donatello lunged, putting his hands around his brother's throat, shaking him once as if that would work. Raphael and Michelangelo both came closer, not sure what to do, even moreso because Leonardo allowed it, going so far as to let his brother shove him against the wall.

"No!" Donatello said, beginning to stammer as his emotions overwhelmed him. "You're not supposed to be evil, Leo! Even if you've turned into some kind of—some kind of monster, that doesn't mean you lose who you are! You're—you're not this thing! You're—"

Leonardo held still, allowing the attack. Michelangelo held his hands over his mouth and Raphael took an aborted step, caught in indecision, unable to move and sure they'd blame themselves forever if Donatello was hurt. But Leonardo showed no sign of harming his brother, instead pulling Donatello close as tears welled up his brother's eyes. The hands around his throat grew weaker until he was supporting Donatello, putting his arms around him.

"I don't have a choice," Leonardo said, rubbing his brother's shell comfortingly. "Holding back from eating made me think about you like...like that. Like you were human. I couldn't stand that."

Donatello sobbed once, shaking, holding onto Leonardo as if his brother could make the nightmare disappear.

"I don't want you killing people," Donatello said, his voice distorted by tears. "I don't want you...doing that."

Leonardo frowned, lowering his head so he could nuzzle against his brother.

"Then help Mikey figure out something," he muttered. "'Cause I don't think I'll be lucky enough to keep killing other monsters for much longer."

Donatello sniffled, looking up, studying Leonardo for signs of...he didn't know. His brother's personality? The monster under his skin, behind his eyes? Was this an act, trying to find a new way of pulling their strings? If he hadn't known better, he would have thought Leonardo was the same as he ever was, normal and pizza-eating, focused on honor and justice.

"Are you still you?" he asked in a small voice.

Leonardo chuckled, and his smile was so familiar that Donatello ached.

"I'm still me," he said. "I've never felt more like me."

Donatello winced. "But...it's all wrong. You wouldn't have killed people like this before."

"I've killed," Leonardo said, his smile fading. "We've all killed."

"Not innocent people." Donatello strained to understand, distraught but unable to let go of his need for a reason. "You never killed regular people."

Leonardo looked at him for several seconds, opened his mouth slightly, then breathed out and looked away.

"Don..."

"...what?"

Even as Donatello began to step back, just enough to see Leonardo more fully, he shook his head. Tried to parse out his meaning again and come up lacking.

"What?"

Leonardo let him stand straight, letting him slip free. This was not something he'd ever wanted to disclose, something he'd kept secret from all of them except for Splinter. At least the last four humans, he could blame on the hunger. But if he didn't want his brothers to attack him in secret...he sighed ruefully. It was apparently a night for letting go secrets.

"You didn't ever think it was strange," Leonardo started, "that no one ever found your lights down here? That no one ever finds us?"

Donatello stood numbly, staring at him as the words refused to make sense in his mind.

"What do you mean?"

The repeated question didn't mean Donatello didn't follow. He simply couldn't. Not yet. Too optimistic, too considerate and empathetic. There was a reason Leonardo had never taken his brothers with him. This was part of his duties that he had never spoken about save with—

"Splinter would let me know when someone was in the tunnels," Leonardo said. "At least until I got better about sensing things like that. And then I'd go and deal with whatever it was."

There. Donatello latched onto a word less monstrous, a greater possibility that horrible things hadn't happened so close by.

"'Deal'?"

"Utility workers coming to check out the tunnels," Leonardo said. "Human vagrants trying to find a place to live. Those were usually crazy. If they got too curious or wouldn't turn around..."

He shrugged.

The meaning was obvious.

Donatello's gaze lowered until he was looking at the floor.

Beside them, Raphael shared a glance with Michelangelo, who retreated to a sofa and sat down, curling up so he could hide his head.

"So...how many?" Donatello murmured. "Hypothetically, you'd get one or two a year, right? That's like ten or twelve, overall."

"Utility workers typically run off," Leonardo said. "Or they think this part of the tunnel's haunted, so they don't come down all the way. Crazy humans or criminals, though, trying to hide out? Four or five a year, maybe?"

"How many of them weren't crazy?" Donatello said, refusing to acknowledge the number of dead that meant. "How many of them would have just left?"

Leonardo's gaze darkened.

"And go back to the surface telling other humans that we're down here?" he asked softly. "Even just spreading it around that there are places to hide, that it's possible...no."

Donatello's jaw tightened.

"And April? When she was chased down here?"

Leonardo glanced aside.

Donatello remembered that night. The three of them laying her out comfortably, covering her with a warm blanket, the cleanest they could find, adding a pillow. Making sure she wasn't hurt, bandaging up the small scrapes and wounds she did have. Preparing tea for when she woke. And Leonardo frowning on the side, questioning why they had brought her, insisting this wasn't safe, demanding to know why, why bring a human to their home?

"She didn't have a choice," Donatello said, "those mousers would have killed her. When we brought her back—"

A deep, frustrated sigh.

"Don...it's not like I want them dead. It's dangerous to contact a human—"

Donatello shook his head, squaring his shoulders.

"You would have killed her."

Leonardo noticed the movement behind his brother, Raphael crossing his arms as he listened, letting Donatello figure things out while trying to sort out the emotions warring in his own head. On the couch, Michelangelo looked up with dry eyes, not because he wasn't broken hearted but because it was too overwhelming to even begin to muster up tears.

Leonardo put his hand on his forehead, trying to squash the headache that was only growing stronger.

"I couldn't," he sighed. "You were there. And Splinter gave me that look, the one he gets when I've failed. I never should have let you bring her all the way home. But then...it didn't matter. She was there, and you three wanted to save her. I couldn't hurt you like that."

"'Us'?" Raphael burst out. "What about to her?"

Michelangelo lifted his head. "She's your friend, Leo. Don't you even feel that anymore?"

Leonardo crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.

"She's your friend. I don't talk to her unless one of you happens to be there."

Michelangelo started to argue—all of them started to argue, their voices starting to mingle into each other, but Donatello's voice began to fade, dying away as he tried to come up with examples and found himself lacking. April spoke with Donatello or smiled at Michelangelo's jokes. Casey got drunk with Raphael before they both went to bust heads, or he'd fiddle with engines with Donatello.

And Leonardo was always on the side, listening but rarely joining. Listening to Splinter's quiet comments.

"So you're saying they're on menu," Raphael muttered. "Fucking bloodsucker."

That, at least, felt familiar. Leonardo huffed the same way he always did when Raphael insulted him.

"You're not listening to me," he said. "They're safe. Killing them would hurt you."

Donatello shook his head.

"You've got a real weird definition of not hurting us," he said.

"It isn't so weird," Leonardo countered, "when you tried to kill me already."

"Well," Raphael said, "you're dead, right? It's just making sure you ain't gonna kill anyone again."

Leonardo turned, but Donatello forestalled them both with a raised hand.

"We don't know for sure," Donatello said. "He has a reflection, after all. And I know there was garlic on the pizza we had yesterday. I'm not going to trust folklore blindly. I need to take a few samples, look at them under a microscope—"

The defensive hiss startled all of them, followed by their brother vanishing out of Donatello's reach.

"I am not one of your experiments," Leonardo growled, reappearing on the other side of the room, the furniture between him and them. That he was in the same corner as before, when they had advanced on what they thought was a monster, wasn't lost on them.

"I'm not going to take you apart," Donatello said, irritated. "I just need a couple blood and tissue samples—"

At Leonardo's growl, Donatello put a hand on his hip.

"Look, I'm not the one killing people for fun and profit." He held up a small glass tube from his belt. "Just this much and—"

They heard the door levers begin to move. Someone, most likely Splinter, was coming in. They were out of time. Donatello looked from the door to his older brother and saw his wide eyes, his tensed hold on the wall behind him. If Leonardo was wary of his brothers, he was terrified of Splinter.

"Let me study you," Donatello said quickly, "help you, and we'll keep this a secret."

"Whoa—" Raphael said. "I ain't—"

"Splinter could help—" Michelangelo started.

"Leo," Donatello said over them, holding out his hand. "Please. Let me help you."

Leonardo looked his outstretched hand, at the door that was starting to swing open.

When Splinter walked in, leaning on his cane, he blinked at how his sons were arranged. Nervous, guarded. That never boded well. He swiftly scanned the room for Leonardo, not sure of what he feared to see, and watched his eldest son cross the room, gaze averted, all but retreating from the family.

"What is the matter?" Splinter said too sharply.

Leonardo paused at the kitchen door, facing the far wall for several seconds. He warred with something inside himself, instinct versus rational thought. Every part of him screamed out that this was wrong. His brothers were dangerous. He should run, hide, gather his strength and then return to command them to forget again.

Forget a week of memories? Of fighting his control? The power he'd need dwarfed anything he had now. Command them or obey them. He put his hand over his face, scared of both choices but out of options.

"Donatello needs me in the lab," Leonardo muttered. "That's all."

"What is the thing I found in the tunnels?" Splinter demanded, stopping him with his tone. "It was torn to pieces."

"Something...attacked me and Raph," Leonardo said, still not looking at him. "It...was strong but it fell apart easy."

"It was already half decayed," Splinter said. "As if a wild animal had dragged its kill there."

Leonardo looked at Raphael, silently asking with his eyes for him to vouch for him. Raphael met his look, quietly challenging him, drawing out the moment...and then sighed and turned, facing Splinter.

"It was alive when I saw it," Raphael said. "Fought like crazy. Almost took Leo's head off. It was all white with a shitload of teeth."

Splinter stared at both of them, whiskers twitching. His tail flipped once, and with a muffled sigh, he forced it to lay still. At his side, he untied a pouch from his belt and tossed it to Donatello.

"I supposed Donatello would want a...sample," Splinter said, nodding at the pouch. "I gathered parts of it. I have disposed of the rest of it. As you should have."

Leonardo's face tightened as he nodded, but around him, his brothers tensed at the sudden implications of that statement.

"I..." Leonardo clenched his hands into fists, visibly warring with himself. He felt his brothers and Splinter tense, and he made himself breathe out, forced his shoulders to drop.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I...panicked."

Splinter made a short dismissive sound, then looked back at Donatello. Three sons on one side of the room, standing together and seemingly ready for battle, with the eldest off to one side. He stood for a long moment, gauging what he saw.

"Donatello," he began. "You are certain?"

Leonardo snapped up, glaring at his father. His siblings likewise came to attention. Splinter had some inkling. Without seeing or hearing anything, Splinter knew something was wrong, and yet was trusting his sons to handle it. If they didn't ask for help.

If they did...there was no telling what that help might look like. Caging their brother somehow? A stake through the heart? None of them wanted Leonardo dead. If he was even really alive.

"Yes, master," Donatello said, nodding once. "We've got this."

Feeling as if he'd been slapped, Leonardo retreated into Donatello's lab, out of sight as he paced back and forth.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's glorious artwork is "Demonstration" by [H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids/pseuds/H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids)

He was not an unthinking animal! Tears pricked at Leonardo's eyes and he blinked them away, furiously running his wrist band across his face. He was not something to be controlled!

He halted.

Controlled.

He'd been right before to be afraid of Donatello. He didn't know how his brother had found out—there was no way Michelangelo could have said anything—but now that the secret was out...

Leonardo looked around himself. Test tubes, beakers, glass jars with strange creatures floating inside. Tiny bottles laid out in neat rows beside the microscope. A refrigerator marked with hazard stickers. The larger tubes stolen from their enemies' labs that had dead, partly dissected creatures inside. And all around him, bits of machines, motors, steel scrap and tools that he didn't recognize.

One mistake after another. He never should have let Michelangelo remember. He never should have tried to bring all three of them together. He should have let them all lay miserable in their beds, quietly moaning each other's names. He should have lured Splinter far away from the lair, deep into the tunnels where he hid—

A wave of nausea struck him. Grimacing, he went to the back wall farthest from the experiments and leaned against the rough brick, sinking down to the floor. He curled up, head down, refusing to move when he heard the door open.

"Leo?" Donatello called.

"Where's the little bastard hiding?"

"Lay off, Raph—"

"You lay off, fucking Renfield. Surprised you weren't eating flies off the floor—"

"Quit being a jackass!"

Michelangelo stomped away from his brother, finding Leonardo half tucked away in shadow. He stared for a moment, shuffling uncertainly. Then he dropped down beside him and put an arm over Leonardo's shoulders.

"Are you okay?" Michelangelo murmured.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Raphael said. "He has us all screwing each other and he's off killing people, and you wanna know if he's okay?"

"This isn't helping," Donatello said, passing Raphael and coming behind his desk.

"Oh, I know what'd help," Raphael said. "You got any staffs in here I can break off? Hell, probably a broom handle'll do."

"Pretty sure his claws went right through my heart," Leonardo muttered. "Don't think a stake'll do anything different."

Raphael opened his mouth, his comment about "not knowing 'till you try" dying as he recognized what Leonardo meant. He scowled, glancing between Leonardo and Donatello hesitantly, but his brother was no help. On the other side of the room, Donatello began clearing his workstation, moving away yesterday's experiments, putting bottles on shelves, and spreading out new test tubes. He tested a pen and began writing labels.

"'His'?" Raphael repeated. "You mean that white ugly thing?"

Leonardo shook his head. When none of them spoke, waiting for him to go on, he sighed and nestled into Michelangelo's arm.

"No. The one that attacked me first."

"I imagine that was a week ago," Donatello said, glancing up to see Leonardo's nod. "I'll need you to approximate the time as closely as you can."

"I don't know," Leonardo said, shifting uncomfortably. "I came home, felt like right after I...woke up? Coming back didn't feel like it took any time. So you know better than I do."

"Well..." Donatello counted in his head. "I guess that means at about 8:20, you came home, so maybe 8:15 or so, you...changed."

"Died," Raphael said.

"Changed," Donatello said forcefully. "We don't know what happened to him. This could be a secondary mutation or a disease or—heck, it might even be magic."

"He's drinking blood and hypnotizing the weak minded," Raphael said. "Either he's a goth jedi or a fucking vampire sex addict."

"You were the one on top," Leonardo said lowly.

Raphael whipped around. "Don't you even—!"

Michelangelo yelped as Leonardo vanished from his arms. As Raphael stomped closer, his sais swinging into his hands, Leonardo became a faint shadow that slid along the wall and reappeared closer to Donatello, perched on a cabinet full of small tool drawers. As Raphael took a threatening step toward him, Leonardo hissed and drew himself up like a wet cat.

"I take it you weren't just watching, then," Donatello said.

"What?" Leonardo didn't look away from Raphael.

"You didn't have sex with us before," Donatello said. "Blood and some light holding, that's it. But it sounds like you and Raphael have..."

"He started it," Leonardo said. "And then it...we..."

He sat crosslegged on the cabinet, slumped down and staring at the wall.

"Did you order me to do it?" Raphael demanded.

"No!" Leonardo snapped, indignant. "Why would I when you asked?"

"Uh, maybe 'cause you made us when we didn't ask," Raphael said.

"But you did!" Leonardo said. "Every night! I could hear all of you moaning each other's names and—"

Raphael turned deep red. "I..."

He glanced at his brothers to see them blushing as well. Only Leonardo, his eyes too bright in the darkness, showed no flush on his skin. Raphael huffed and slid his sai back into his belt.

"Fucking freak," he grumbled, sitting on a stool surrounded by machine parts.

"Let's..." Donatello coughed. "Let's get back to the beginning. A week ago. We lost track of you when we were running down 127th street. I assume that's when you were bit?"

"The first time," Leonardo said.

"And after that?" Donatello asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What happened? I mean, how many times were you bit? Was it like when you bite us—?"

"No," Leonardo cut him off. "Nothing like with you. Never like that."

"Then...okay. Okay." Donatello put his hands on his table, leaning forward as he gathered his thoughts. "How many times were you bit?"

"...twice." Leonardo shrugged. "I think."

"Twice." Donatello wrote it down. "Can you describe the—"

"No."

"Wh..." Donatello frowned. "Leo, I need all the information about the attack. It could be important. The smallest thing could be huge. When was it? How long did it take? Where did it happen? What was it like when you changed—"

"No." Leonardo shook his head. "I'm not going to...just don't ask me about it. I'm not talking about it."

"At least the bite itself," Donatello pushed. "What was it—?"

"I said no!" Leonardo snarled, and his hands tightened around the edge of the cabinet so hard that he felt the metal begin to give. "I'm not...I'm not going to..."

His voice died. The room fell silent, his brothers staring at him after the outburst. He closed his eyes and wished he could go hide inside his room again. If he hadn't ruined everything, if the damn white vampire hadn't come, he could have been holding Michelangelo in his arms, lapping tiny drops from his throat—

"Hold still."

Donatello's warm hand cupped his cheek. Leonardo opened his eyes, surprised by the gentle touch, startled even more by the glass rim touching the corner of his eye. When Donatello pulled back, a streak of blood pooled at the bottom of a small test tube.

"There." Donatello put the tube in its rack and took another, longer one. "We'll see if this is any different from the blood in the rest of your body."

Leonardo stared for a long moment. The touch had been nothing but his brother steadying him to take a sample of a tear.

"I'll need more blood," Donatello mused to himself, creating a checklist. "Skin and tissue. A sample of your mist, and if I can get it, when you turn into a shadow...thing. Hm. Deep tissue might be hard, but if I can get him to hold still..."

"Don't take too much out of him," Michelangelo said. "Too much and he'll have to eat again."

"Kill again," Raphael corrected. "Donnie, think we could donate a pint here or there, string him out a bit?"

"Not an option," Leonardo said. "I don't want to get used to treating you like...like..."

"Like take-out?" Raphael said. "If we're keeping you around, then I'd like some insurance that you won't suddenly get the urge for a midnight snack."

"If I was going to lose control," Leonardo said, "it would've happened already."

"He isn't gonna bite us," Michelangelo said, stepping between them. When he felt sure that Raphael wasn't going to get close enough to fight, Michelangelo faced Leonardo again. "But that way you don't have to kill anyone. Just until we figure out something?"

Leonardo refused to look. His little brother was using the puppy eyes again, he knew it. And this was too important. He didn't want to hurt his little brother.

"Whatever," he mumbled, barely audible.

"Awesome," Michelangelo said. "I'll get the...um. I mean."

He winced at Leonardo's flinch.

"We'll wait. When you're in your room again. You won't have to see us drawing it or anything."

Leonardo wanted to keep glaring. Nevermind that he wouldn't see their blood. He would smell it, the deep scent of their blood in all its varying tastes. The tea and cream of Donatello's. Sweet honey from Michelangelo. The thin, heady rush of Raphael. All of them like dessert after three or four humans, bland and tasteless from what he'd experienced. The only difference was the other vampire...both vampires, he realized. Both powerful but as black and thick as oil.

"I can't believe I almost forgot," Donatello said. "Teeth. Leo, I'm going to need a piece of a fang."

Leonardo froze. As Donatello talked about things like genetic markers and enamel and roots, Leonardo found himself pressed against the wall, rattling the cabinet as he shifted.

They must not have remembered. Or maybe his teeth hadn't been so clear when he first came home, more darkness than himself, all shadowed edges and glaring eyes. If he had been facing them with his jaws wide—

His hand had come up over his mouth before he realized it.

"Uh," Raphael started, his gaze again going between his brothers. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

Donatello didn't hear him, already setting out the mortar and pestle he would use, the long steel syringe he would need to extract anything he didn't want crushed.

"Donny," Raphael said. "Hey, dude, you haven't seen them."

"Exactly," Donatello said, not looking up as he wrote on a label. "First extraction...and the date..."

"Don," Raphael said more forcefully. "Listen to me. They ain't fangs, they're—"

"Maybe that could be a partial solution," Donatello mused. "Remove the fangs."

"Goddammit, Don—"

"If his pain threshold is really that high, then anesthesia may not even be needed—"

"Donatello!" Raphael slammed his hands down on the table, rattling the equipment.

Snapped out of his thoughts, Donatello blinked and stood straight.

"What?"

"Will you quit playing mad scientist for one second and fucking listen to me?" Raphael said. "You haven't seen these things. I have. They ain't fangs."

Still confused, Donatello reached down to the bag at his side, the pieces of the dead vampire he'd forgotten as he focused solely on his live sample. Frowning, he put it the bag the table and pulled the string, finding it was not a bag but a handkerchief folded on itself. The cloth fell open, revealing thick black ichor, a ripped piece of white skin, and faint white slivers.

Donatello took a headset from the shelf above him, putting on what was obviously a set of magnification lenses, flipping down three one after the other and fine tuning the last one. Then he picked out a pair of tweezers from the tool tray and leaned over the handkerchief. He put his leg out slightly and hooked the stool behind himself, pulling it close as he sat down.

"What are these?" he murmured, careful not to breathe on his samples. "Not bone, clearly."

He carefully caught the end of a white sliver and drew it out, surprised at the length as it continued to slide out of the ichor. Slightly curved, it finally came free at a needle's point, measuring two and a half inches when he set it beside the ruler.

"A claw?" he wondered, then shook his head. "It's too thin to be a claw, but it's too hard to be keratin. I don't think I can pull anything from this. I'm going to have to grind it down to figure out—"

"It's a fang, Don."

Donatello blinked again, looking at Raphael.

"What?"

"It's a tooth. It's one of the thing's teeth." Raphael sighed. "A row of those in its mouth, Don. That's what it bites with. A dozen...no, hundreds of the damn things. It bit down on Leo's ankle so bad it nearly tore his foot off."

Donatello glanced at his brother's wounded leg, now healed, then looked up at him. His mouth pressed firm.

"Let me see."

Leonardo shook his head once.

"Let me see." Donatello stood, facing his brother. "Now."

"Don, please—"

"Now!"

The tone of his voice was steel, the same unyielding demands that they had learned never to argue with. Raphael could joke or snark that their brother played the mad scientist, but when Donatello found himself elbows deep in oil or blood, the result was the same. Bodies were just another form of engine, and he would not be stopped from learning how it worked.

"You'll hate me," Leonardo whispered, still behind his hand.

"Now."

"Don't make me—"

"If you don't show me right now," Donatello said, "the deal's off."

Stricken, Leonardo shut his eyes and lowered his hand.


	18. Chapter 18

His mouth didn't shift so much as it pulled, forcing his jaw open painfully wide as his teeth seemed to turn, twisting with audible wet cracks into long white needles, three or four of them for each tooth.

Donatello stared in rapt horror, his lips parting slightly. He drew closer, entranced at the white shards that now rowed his brother's mouth. This close, he could see the faint serrations on the edge, the way that the teeth did not end in points so much as they simply broke off, all of them jagged as knives or chisels. Slightly curved, they all bent inward, a trap that would slash through soft tissue and force the victim further in.

This was not the poetic stuff of gothic literature and fantastical dreams. This was the gaping maw of a predator, built solely to shred skin in an instant. That they were clean of gore was not reassuring. Worse, it let them see every bit of how they twisted in Leonardo's mouth, every edge and point, like a machine that merely waited to be turned on.

And then Leonardo moved, shifted ever so slightly, and this was not a sample to be studied. This was a monster right in front of his face.

Donatello stumbled backward, falling over his stool.

Leonardo vanished—but now that they were all staring so closely, they saw the small changes that camouflaged what really happened.

His skin turned as dark as coal, like ink spreading over him and blurring onto the wall, onto the ceiling. He didn't disappear but rather melted back into the shadow behind himself, a growing black puddle that spread out and naturally fit into tiny crevices, half-hidden nooks. When that corner of the world stopped rippling, he was impossible to see.

"You okay?" Michelangelo asked, helping Donatello back to his feet. "You went super pale."

"It was...right in front of me," Donatello said, half bowed as he picked up his stool and sat at his table again, leaning hard against the edge. "I didn't expect it to just move like that."

"He's not an it," Michelangelo insisted.

"Not that," Donatello said. "Those fangs...I thought it was...god, it was like the jolt I got in my first vivisection. It's so different studying something when it's alive. Leo, are you—?"

He stopped and looked around.

"Leo?"

"He's still in here," Raphael said, nodding at the corner. "He ain't left."

Donatello followed his motion, not noticing at first how dark that spot of his laboratory had become. He leaned over, tilting his desk lamp so that it better lit up that wall. It looked like shadows had been painted on the bricks, bits of a dark dust cloud applied around the corners.

"If you want a sample of that stuff," Raphael said. "Probably best get it now."

Nodding faintly, Donatello picked up a test tube and held it to the wall, then paused.

"How do I even...?" he murmured. "I don't want it to hurt him."

A faint wisp of shadow appeared to coat the inside of the tube. Donatello stared at the colored glass, then capped it and labelled it Shadow Form.

With a deep sigh, he sat down again and looked at the growing range of samples before him.

"Jesus."

"Guess we know why he uses a knife with us," Michelangelo said, picking up the blade in question from where it had fallen on the floor. "Why he got so pissed when I said he could bite me."

He touched the tip thoughtfully, then set the blade in his belt.

"Do you think he can hear us?" Raphael said. "With his brains scattered all over the room?"

"I don't think a lot of what he does is dependent on individual organs anymore."

Donatello took the skin sample and ran a scalpel through it, cutting it into relatively neat sections which went into different bottles. The thick scent of formaldehyde came as he filled one bottle, then tried another preservative, and then finally the last one was left alone. All were carefully labelled and put into a rack screwed into the desk so there would be no accidental smashing.

"In fact," he continued, similarly isolating the teeth and the handkerchief with its blood, "I'm starting to put together a bit of a hypothesis. We've seen him turn into mist and this...darkness, whatever it is. And the change in his teeth. That's a lot of particulates to control. All those little bits of himself, and he controls it like it's nothing."

"So?" Michelangelo asked.

"So," Donatello said. "Those old stories about vampires turning into thousands of bugs? Maybe this is what it really meant."

"They turn into bugs?" Raphael grimaced. "Hey, Leo, you can turn into bugs?"

Nothing. Silence. They waited expectantly, but after a long moment, Donatello sighed and kept explaining.

"Vampire stories sometimes have the hero building a big bonfire and throwing the vampire in. And then there's an explosion of bugs of all types, and everyone in town usually has to stomp on them to really kill the vampire, 'cause even just one getting away would mean the vampire would survive."

"Gah."

Donatello put the teeth from the dead vampire into several test tubes and one into his mortar, crushing it and putting the powder into yet another tube. Once all of those had been sorted and put away, he looked back at the shadows on his wall.

"I still need one fang," he said. "And I want a sample of your blood, and from when you turn into mist. Can you give me that?"

The shadows didn't move.

"Oh, for the love of..." Donatello muttered and smacked his hand on the table. "I don't hate you and I'm sure as hell not afraid of you. The teeth just spooked me."

Again, no response. And then the shadows dripped up the wall, over the ceiling and past Donatello, moving to a darker part of the lab. Something clattered on his desk, and he found two needle-thin fangs in front of him.

"Huh." Donatello jotted down a note about Leonardo's level of control and added it to the growing list of things he knew. The fangs were collected and put away.

"I'll get the rest of what I need out of you later," he said. "Don't leave the lab."

He brought his microscope down from its shelf and prepared a handful of slides. Beginning with the blood for fear that it would rot first, he smeared the black ichor across several slides and applied different colored stains. Humming to himself, he set the first slide and looked.

A minute passed. Another.

"You know," Donatello said, not looking up. "This is going to take awhile."

"I'm not going anywhere," Michelangelo said.

"I ain't leaving you alone in here with him," Raphael said.

"Not that I mind," Donatello said, glancing sideways at the artificially dark part of his lab. "But you might wanna get something to do. Staring is just going to make me more nervous."

"...I'll get my comics," Michelangelo said, already heading out the door. "And some snacks. Oh, and my headphones."

Raphael waited until his little brother was out of hearing before he stood straight.

"You might have Mikey suckered in," he said to the shadow in the corner. "And Don's just naturally dense when he turns into a mad scientist."

"Hey!"

"But I ain't buying it." He poked his finger at the darkness. "What you did to us was...I don't care if you heard us saying shit. That wasn't for you. You had no right to do any of that. So no, I don't trust you. And yeah, I'm fucking scared, 'cause you're a fucking monster."

Something rippled. A stack of clutter at the very top of the shelves clinked and toppled down to the floor. The shelves rattled, and then the darkness swirled and came back into the center of the room, coalescing beside Raphael into the shape of their brother. A second later, the darkness faded and Leonardo was standing as if he had never changed at all.

"Hm," Donatello wondered. "If you can control all of that, how come you don't make yourself taller?"

Leonardo's glare, fixed on Raphael, wavered. He looked down at himself for a moment.

"I never tried. I didn't..."

He shook his head and focused back on Raphael.

"I have done nothing but keep you safe and happy," he said. "You're the one who keeps fighting it."

"How the hell does making us rape each other—"

"You all want each other!" Leonardo said. "You never stop moaning at night—"

Raphael turned red again, starting to feel sick. "So you can justify fucking us—?"

"I never joined you! You never called my name!"

"So take a hint!"

"Then you really do want me dead?"

"Newsflash, Dracula, Donnie's doing this trying to keep you alive."

"He's doing this because I'm another lab rat to take apart!" Leonardo's hand shook as he waved at the assorted parts on Donatello's desk. "Once he figures this out, I'm dead!"

"Oh, bullshit, drama queen," Raphael snapped. "We add stealing blood to the grocery list, big whoop. The real problem is keeping you from murdering people and turning us into sex slaves."

Leonardo snarled. "You were going to tumble into one of their beds soon anyway."

"Yeah, on our time!"

"Um, guys," Donatello broke in. "I don't need your usual argue-fest right now. Major distraction."

The door opened, and they all fell silent, fearful that their father would come in.

"Totally," Michelangelo said as he closed the door again. "Pretty sure all that yelling traveled to Splinter's room."

That their father might have heard that only made the tension pull that much tighter. As Michelangelo dropped his duffel bag on the ground, spreading out a blanket, Leonardo and Raphael refused to look at each other.

"Besides, Leo won't do any of that now," Michelangelo added. "You promised to put off eating as long as you can, so that means no hypnotism, right? 'Cause that uses up power?"

Leonardo nodded once, still looking away.

"Exactly how difficult was that?" Donatello said, still staring at the slide. "Hypnotizing us? Is it even hypnotism?"

Leonardo didn't answer at first, only speaking when Raphael shoved his shoulder. It was an old gesture, one that Leonardo had put up with ever since they were children, and it brought out the same grudging reaction.

"I don't know," Leonardo said, the answer dragging out of him. "I just feel like I'm saying it without saying it."

"And it used a lot of strength?" Donatello asked. "It seemed like it hurt you when we broke free."

"...it took everything to make you forget," Leonardo said. "I had to meditate for hours to keep control."

"All to keep us screwing happily?" Raphael said.

"To keep you from killing me."

Raphael rolled his eyes "Whatever, Lestat. I grant ya the first time—"

"And the second time?" Leonardo jerked his head at Donatello. "I'd be a pile of ash if that light of his had worked right."

"That was self-defense," Raphael growled. "You wanna avoid being fried? Don't get all uppity and start snacking on us first chance you get."

"Or anything else," Donatello said before Leonardo could answer. "You do what we say when we say, at least until I feel like I can turn my back on you again. And that won't be for awhile, not until I get a real long term solution for this."

"'Long term'?" Michelangelo asked. "I was just thinking for the next time—"

"The short term 'not-killing problem' still needs solving," Donatello said. "I'll give you that. But no, we need something much longer term. If Leo stops acting like a spoiled brat—"

He ignored the indignant hiss.

"—and we can actually trust him again, then we have a much bigger problem. I'm going to have to study these samples for awhile to be sure, but think about it. What's the major thing about vampires?"

"Blood sucking freaks?" Raphael said with a side glare at his brother.

"Beside that," Donatello said.

"They live forever," Michelangelo said. His eyes widened. "Oh."

"Exactly." Donatello snapped his fingers. "So he needs a solution that'll last long after we're gone."

Raphael frowned, considering that, and Donatello returned to looking at his slide. It was Michelangelo who saw Leonardo grow extremely still, staring at nothing on the wall.

"Leo?"

Michelangelo came close to his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder. He winced. His brother felt painfully cold. No wonder he'd surrounded himself with candles before.

Leonardo heard his brother's voice as if from far away, underwater. He couldn't breathe. Donatello's words ran through his mind over and over, and he couldn't find an escape. His brothers were mortal. They would die. He was forever but they would die. He would have them for a few decades, a few precious, short years, and then they would die. He would have them for a blink of time and then they would die, and he would be alone.

Alone. Going mad. Starving or slaughtering. Alone.

In his mind, the white monster shuffling down the hall was himself.

The scream bubbled up, small at first, a faint whine that made them all look up, and then it grew louder and louder into a wail that scraped the edges of the wall. He screamed, doubling over on himself, and the lab began to shake, his force of will no longer hypnotizing his brothers but dragging over the shelves, rattling the lights, making the electrical cords hiss.

A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Someone called his name.

He felt like he was already sealed away in a coffin, trapped underground. Out, out—

Like a brief candle blown out, he was suddenly out of the lab, through the lair, into the darkness of the tunnels.


	19. Chapter 19

He became aware of himself as a salt breeze touched his face. For a long moment, he lay still, afraid to move. If he had blacked out, in his state, there was almost no limit to what he could do. Tear humans apart. Drink from a dozen victims. Set the city on fire. He could do anything.

Except keep his siblings alive.

His eyes pricked with tears as he looked up.

Stars. A crescent moon. The glow of the city around him. If he listened, he could hear a dozen heartbeats around him. The wind carried the stench of humans and the scent of blood.

To his changed eyes, the stars burned. Before, the city lights had washed the stars out behind a dim golden glow of street lamps. Now the stars blazed, a web of candles behind a shimmering moon, and all around them, a black stain of sky that swallowed up any trace of light.

With an effort, he sat up, slouching against the brick and concrete. The breeze from the ocean blew past, carrying scents he had never realized before—salt, sea life, the exhaust of ships and planes, the strangely sick scent of chemicals he didn't recognize.

And the inescapable humans.

Everywhere, a constant backdrop, human animals clustered so thickly that the smell of blood of sweat and other more disgusting things floated around them in a cloud. Like jewels sunk in mud, their hearts beat muffled and low.

How easily he could feast on them all. Less than an hour, and all the people around him could be dead. Adults, children...every single one of them stood out, all promising warmth and satisfaction.

His whole body twisted in knots. He had promised not to kill. He had promised not to eat.

To push down his hunger, constant and impossible to ignore. He had promised to a family that no longer trusted him, that treated him like an animal. He had made promises to the family who hated him.

Who had never called his name at night.

Who would be dead in a hundred years.

A lifetime of loneliness rose before him. How much worse now that they were alive and he was alone?

Could he even go back home?

He stared at the sky for a long time, drowning in the dark.

* * *

"What the hell was that?"

Raphael's yell followed Michelangelo out of the lab, echoing in the lair as Michelangelo caught the faint wisp of darkness flying through the lair, slipping through the door and past the wide eyes of his father.

"Leo, wait!"

Michelangelo stumbled on the edge of the carpet, opening the door his brother had simply melted through and spotting the last hint of his brother disappearing into the tunnels. He called out one more time, leaning into the darkness, yelling his brother's name. His head bowed as he realized his brother wasn't coming back.

"What on earth...?" Splinter whispered.

Wincing, Michelangelo turned to his master, not sure how to answer. He met Splinter's look helplessly, afraid of what he might do, of what his brothers might do. Of what Leonardo might do.

"It's not his fault," Michelangelo said, first to Splinter. then to Donatello and Raphael as they came into the main room. "It's not his fault. He got scared when you said that about...living forever."

"It ain't living," Raphael snapped, pressing his hand against his temple. "Dammit, how am I s'posed to follow him?"

"You can't," Donatello said. "Nothing can follow him like that except another...oh. Um. Hi, master."

Splinter was still staring out into the tunnel, struggling to make sense of what he had just seen. The color, the shape had been all wrong, but the sound and the sense of it was unmistakable.

"What has happened?" Splinter said, looking at each of them in turn, his gaze finally resting on Donatello as the most likely source.

"It's..." Donatello groaned and sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, putting his head in his hands. "Oh god, sensei. It's all so messed up. I—I don't know where to start."

"Lemme give you the short version," Raphael said, glaring at both of his brothers. "Leo's a vampire, been a vampire for the past week or so."

Splinter's eyes widened. "What?"

"Those people on the news, the ones they think got attacked by an animal? Yeah, that was Leo. And Mikey's been covering for him, and Don's trying to experiment on him, and I tried to land a punch on him but son of a bitch is too damn fast."

Raphael punctuated his rant with his fist in his palm, growling in frustration.

Splinter closed his eyes, trying to process that. He put his hand out to the couch, feeling at the edge of it so he could sit. Michelangelo came beside him and helped guide him toward the seat.

"Dammit, Raph," Michelangelo muttered. "Could'a laid that on him a little slower?"

"Kinda late for that," Raphael said. "Dracula just tore outta here like a fuckin' bat outta hell."

"Stop," Splinter said, putting his hand up to silence them. "Both of you. I need to..."

He sighed, shaking his head once.

"I had thought he was..." He leaned back on the couch, reeling as he slowly made sense of what he had seen in the nights before. "Brooding. Depressed. Or that perhaps he was confessing his feelings..."

The three of them turned very, very still. Each of them shared a look to confirm that they'd heard the same thing.

"Whoa," Raphael said. "Whoa whoa. Back that train up. You knew about that?"

"I knew he visited you," Splinter said softly. "At night. It did not surprise me that he would confess it first, not when your distress was so obvious."

"'Obvious'?" Raphael gaped at him. "Whaddaya mean obvious?

"I mean that I have ears," Splinter said. "Perhaps the only reason you could not hear each other was that your own pain drowned out theirs."

He took a long breath, allowing everything to sink in.

"A vampire...the creature in your movies that drinks blood, yes?" Splinter shook his head once. "You are certain?"

"Oh yeah," Raphael said. "Donnie and Mikey both got the juice box treatment."

"That...awful imagery aside," Donatello said, pushing Raphael out of the way. "Master, I don't know if we can stop him. He's awfully strong, and he's telekinetic, and he can make us do things and forget things, and he said that he's not going to stop killing people..."

"Yes he did," Michelangelo said, talking over Raphael's squawk. "He did! He promised he wouldn't kill anyone else if he didn't have to. He said he wouldn't if I found another way for him to get blood."

"Mikey, for crying out loud." Raphael held his hands up as if asking patience from Heaven. "He knows you ain't gonna be able to do that. Do you even know where the blood banks are?"

"I haven't been able to look," Michelangelo said, "'cause I've been so busy dealing with you acting like a total jerk and making this way more difficult than it had to be."

"That's rich," Raphael scoffed. "Leo's making us screw each other but it's my fault somehow."

"Yame!"

Splinter's command to stop cut through both of them, leaving silence in its dying echo.

"As much as I would like to stay here and listen to your...explanations," he said, "clearly that must wait. We need to find your brother. Come with me."

"Um, master?" Donatello grimaced. "Can I stay here? I have a bunch of samples and I don't have any kind of basic observations yet, let alone analysis. If we're gonna help Leo..."

"You may stay," Splinter said. "Please keep your communicator with you."

"How're you gonna find him?" Raphael asked. "Ain't like a big swirly shadow cloud'll answer a phone call."

"I will find him," Splinter said confidently, heading into the tunnels. "Come, and keep up."

Michelangelo looked back at his brother. "You sure you'll be okay here alone?"

"I'll lock up," Donatello said. "Just...bring him back in one piece?"

"Sure, whatever," Raphael said, jogging after Splinter and pulling Michelangelo with him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids

Someone was coming.

Leonardo sat up, listening not to the sounds around him but to the night air. Something was coming...something from above. A clear presence, distinct and strong, rode on the night winds from the tallest tower of the city skyline. Swift, it wheeled high above the street, then banked and came down towards him in easy circles.

With one hand against the wall behind himself, steadying himself, Leonardo peered up into the sky. Clouds were blowing in from the ocean, silver blue in the moonlight, and if he concentrated, he could just make out the dark dot swooping in and out of sight. First in front of the clouds, then behind, then dropping down and growing a little larger...

He stood, wondering if he should take shelter inside. He could feel it—similar to the vampire that had bitten him, to the white thing in the tunnels. Should he try to fight it? Another fight would mean using up some of the power he'd gained, possibly being injured and needing to feed sooner. And he'd promised not to eat for as long as he could.

But it had to feel him as well. It would find him no matter what. Better to fight it now. And it gave him an idea—he hadn't thought of trying to fly so much higher, even though he'd come up here, several stories off the ground. He could try it later—

The dot vanished.

Leonardo blinked, taking a step back. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it, coming faster, faster—a blur in front of his face—

Pain burst through his chest and his whole body, punching through his shell.

He looked down, his jaw dropping in shock. Something was inside him—something had pierced through him, something wooden. He put his hands on it, tried to take a step.

He couldn't move. Cold tremors wracked his body, and as his legs turned weak, more and more of his weight rested on the wooden shaft.

Stake, he realized. A wooden stake.

But big enough to pin him to the wall, as long as a spear, thick as his arm.

A shadow loomed over him, blocking out the sky. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, shoving him back against the wall. His head cracked on the bricks. Lights flashed in his eyes as a low voice growled beside him.

"You're the one who killed the white death?" A snarl, as if something tasted the air around them. "Yes, I smell her on you. And her master as well."

The blinding lights faded, and Leonardo saw the thing standing in front of him. Broad black wings that surrounded him, black circles for eyes in an elongated face with sharp, needle-like teeth, and a tall body that easily stood over him. A bat. He would have laughed if he could have formed coherent thoughts.

"I haven't seen another animal of our kind in centuries," it growled, and Leonardo grew more aware that the thing was not so much speaking as pushing its words directly into his thoughts. "And to find a turtle...this would be amusing if you had not killed them."

Leonardo coughed a mouthful of blood. He couldn't think. Trying to stand only shifted his weight on the stake. He struggled to breathe, trying to drag air through his torn lungs.

"You feel it?" the thing asked. "You cannot shift."

The vampire grabbed his shoulder and slammed his head back into the wall again. Its mouth distended, revealing fangs crowded in tight even as its mouth grew longer and longer, a hellish maw that finally clamped down his shoulder, his throat, his chest, all in one bite. With a harsh wrench, it dug its fangs deep into him, teeth like broken chisels breaking through his shell then pulled back, ripping skin and muscle and fragments shell in a great spray of blood. Ragged red flesh and white bone tore down the bite, a jagged V cleaving Leonardo nearly to the stake.

Blood poured from his body, from his mouth. He went limp, staring at nothing.

The bat leaned back, a long hiss escaping as it swallowed. It stared at Leonardo, disgusted at what it saw. No screams. No pleading or begging. His prey seemed already dead.

"Do you even understand the pain you are in?" it asked. "Or are you so young and stupid? An insult that you are what killed a master."

It grabbed the thick stake and twisted it, drawing a strained groan out of Leonardo.

"Stake to pin it down," the vampire snarled. "Then cut off the head. Then it dies."

Leonardo heard it as if underwater. The stars and moon blurred against the city lights. The pain still flared in his chest, ice cold on his shell and plastron. Its breath cut across his face as it leaned close, grabbing his arm and holding it out.

"I am ashamed for the white death," it said, "that you are such easy prey. But I will at least have the pleasure of slowly tearing you apart..."

Tightening its long fingers around his wrist, the bat began to pull. Leonardo's arm drew taut, then began to pull at the wound in his chest. The great tear down his body widened, began to snap as sinews and bone twisted. His shoulder popped audibly. His hand and fingers broke under its grip. The crack in his shell split into a half-dozen more cracks that ran to the edge and began to bleed-

A hiss that did not come from either vampire. The bat flinched, dropping Leonardo's hand, pulling its wings in tight as smoke began to trail along its skin.

It looked over its shoulder at the faint pale tint of blue behind it. Sunlight, still nearly an hour away, already began to scorch. His skin burned and bubbled white, peeling like charred ashes.

"Burning is too good for you," it snarled, unfurling its wings and flapping once, twice, into the air. "Lucky yet again."

There was no more time to rage. It descended down the side of the building, down to the comforting shadows where the sun would not burn so strongly, and fled the creeping light.

* * *

On the rooftop across, Raphael peered over the ledge at the huge bat creature. It spread its wings, lifting them up in a plume of smoke.

"Shit, it's gonna catch fire," he said. "Is it saying something?"

"Be silent," Splinter whispered, lightly rapping Raphael's head with his walking stick.

Despite himself, Splinter answered Raphael's question, in thought if not out loud. Though it should have been impossible to hear the bat creature from so far away, he heard its growls and snarling breath carried on the wind. Something had it so intently focused that it did not notice him or Raphael, and Splinter gambled that his eldest son was that focus.

"It's smoking," Raphael whispered. "Why isn't it screaming?"

"Perhaps it is a real ninja," Splinter whispered, smacking him a little harder. "That knows enough not to speak."

The bat turned its head, staring directly at them. Splinter's breath caught. The empty eyes were monstrous enough, but the pulled face and the needles filling its mouth were things out of a nightmare. He tensed, ready to move the instant it flared its wings.

Instead it looked back at whatever prey it had caught, then...vanished.

Splinter blinked. One second it stood there, the next it was gone, leaving its prey behind, obscenely displayed like a mounted butterfly.

Splinter felt like his heart would stop. His son stood pinned to the wall, his head canted so far to one side that there was no way he was still alive.

Splinter leaped to his feet, lightly dropping down the side of building, catching himself on the window frames and landing in a spring to the other building. Behind him, Raphael landed hard, wincing as he sprinted after him.

"Splinter, wait—don't go charging in blindly—"

Too late, Splinter had already scaled the next wall, ignoring the fire escape in lieu of the rain gutter and his claws digging into the bricks. He came over the ledge, running to his son's side—and stopped.

"My son..."

Blood covered everything. A long wooden shaft, a spear or javelin, jutted out of his son's chest. Splinter lightly touched it, aghast at the damage. His son's plastron had cracked and fragmented around it, half-concealed by blood. Leonardo's throat had been torn out and his body not so much slashed as ripped in half. Leonardo's eyes stared distantly, gray and sunken in.

"Holy..."

Raphael came closer, coughing at the overwhelming scent of blood. When he saw his brother, a soft sound strangled in his throat. Staggering back a step, he turned and put his hands on the ledge, gagging.

Raphael pressed his fist to his mouth, forcing back his nausea.

"Is...?" he choked, refusing to look. "Splinter...?"

"I...I don't..." Splinter moved away from his son's body, turning for just a moment.

Splinter had the vague thought that he shouldn't turn his back on the night, that the creature was still out there somewhere, that they were completely vulnerable here in the open. It didn't matter. He had not expected to lose his son like this. He didn't even understand what had driven Leonardo out here in the first place. Thoughts came at him in cold fragments, impossible to put together.

Raphael's voice, something about vampires. That simply couldn't sink in. A blood drinker from the movies? He had been suspicious of Leonardo's late nights, the sudden mental focus in the dojo, but that had seemed the frustrated sexuality of an aggressive young man. The straining at the sensei's leash. It couldn't...he couldn't have missed...

The smell of blood grew stronger. Splinter put his hand over his eyes, feeling his stomach clench.

A car passed by below, its headlights swinging over the apartment building. The quiet conversations of strangers on the street. And low, almost impossible to hear...a sound like wet bone cracking. Of choking on blood.

Splinter and Raphael turned.

With both hands trembling on the long stake, Leonardo pulled, his body still nearly in half, his eyes still blank. His fingertips dug into the wood, splintering it at the edges, and he trembled as he fought to drag himself forward. Blood slicked his hands, making him slip, and he squeezed his eyes shut and regained his hold.

The jerking, mechanical motion was too much. Raphael's knees bent and he fell to the concrete, staring at the mass of blood and dark, glistening flesh left behind. His brother moved like something dead, now pulling the end of the stake into himself. The dark wound became visible, a great gaping hole of red meat and wet, black ichor.

And then Leonardo slipped off of the stake and dropped. Mouth gaping, eyes wide, he resembled nothing so much as a corpse, unmoving as he lay still.

Splinter and Raphael stared, not knowing what to do.

"Leo?" Raphael whispered.

Without blinking, Leonardo's eyes rolled to focus on Raphael.

Gasping, Raphael backed away until he came up against the wall, his eyes still locked with Leonardo's. Chills ran through him, making him shiver, and he had to force himself to look away, catching his breath.

"Splinter?" Raphael looked up to him. "Whadda we do?"

His son's face, drawn with grief and shock, forced Splinter back to himself. He shook his head once, clearing it. He spotted a line of laundry hanging outside, and he retrieved a sheet that was fluttering in the wind.

Only once Leonardo was completely wrapped in cloth did Raphael reluctantly take him, cradling his brother in his arms. The run home felt both like they flew and like they had to walk a thousand miles.


	21. Chapter 21

"Just come home, Mikey. Just...just get back home."

Michelangelo didn't know what to make of the flat emotion of Raphael's voice. He hadn't heard his brother sound so emotionless since sitting by their wounded big brother, watching the snow fall outside the window as they bandaged up Leonardo's wounds together. Not scared, not sad. Just tired. Numb. Michelangelo didn't want to think about what that meant.

He felt a guilty twinge. Maybe he should have gone with them instead of—

No. Splinter had ordered him to take this side mission. He wouldn't question his master. He knotted off the bag and tied it to his belt, but it was still a long trek across the river and busy streets.

Almost an hour later, he arrived to find the lair dark, only the warm glow of the kitchen lighting the rest of his home. Raphael slumped on the couch, his head in his hands, and Splinter sat beside him, gazing past a point on the far wall. Michelangelo glanced around and found nothing out of place.

"What...what happened?" Michelangelo asked.

Raphael looked up at him, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. Michelangelo breathed in. Raphael never let them see him cry, not so obviously. He quickly went to Raphael's side, sitting next to him and putting his arms around him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Leo..." Raphael mumbled. "He got...oh, Mikey, it's so fucked up. I can't..."

Choking, Raphael shook his head. He turned, leaning close to their father, tucking close as Splinter put his arm around him.

Michelangelo guessed the worst, grimacing as he thought of how Leonardo must have broken his promise and slaughtered more people. He didn't want to think of it, imagining his brother's horrible twisted teeth as he attacked helpless humans...but he had to know for sure.

"Did Leo kill someone else?"

Splinter shook his head once, beginning to answer, but his voice came as if remembering a dream.

"I...doubt that. It...the attack would not have been so gruesome if he had. He would have been able to fight back, I think."

"'Fight back'?" Michelangelo frowned. "Will somebody just tell me what happened?"

Raphael murmured something inaudible. When Michelangelo leaned closer, he made out the words "torn apart" and "still moving." But Raphael didn't say anything else, and Splinter had pressed his hand to his head, fighting back more than a migraine. Strange that he hadn't tried to meditate, or tried to lead Raphael to meditation, to calm themselves down. But then maybe whatever Leonardo had done had left them too shaken for that.

"Mikey."

Michelangelo startled, looking up at Donatello in the lab doorway. His brother held his laptop and a camera. In the dark lair, the laptop bathed him in cold blue light, washing him out like a pale ghost. He stifled a yawn.

"Splinter said he sent you off to the hospital," Donatello said. "Did you get it?"

Michelangelo patted the plastic bag knotted on his belt.

"Bring it here then."

Donatello waved him closer, but instead of going back into his lab, they instead went to Leonardo's room. Michelangelo was startled to find a crucifix hanging on the door, and he gave Donatello a look.

"Can't hurt," Donatello muttered, opening the door.

Michelangelo followed him inside...and stopped.

The room was dark, the candles all cold, and Michelangelo suspected that the lightbulb was broken. Only a square of light from the door fell across his brother, half in, half out of shadow. Leonardo lay curled on the floor, eyes shut, not breathing, but more strikingly, his brother had gone a pale, pale shade of green.

"What the...?" Michelangelo whispered.

"This is nothing." Donatello put his laptop down and readied the camera. He focused on his older brother, took a photo and made a note. "You should've seen him when they brought him back. Torn almost in half and with a huge hole in the middle. Pretty sure there are chunks of shell all the way back here."

"Oh my god," Michelangelo whispered, "does it hurt—?"

Michelangelo took a step toward Leonardo only to have Donatello grab his wrist, holding him back. With a look, Michelangelo pulled free but didn't leave his side. He didn't have to get closer to see Leonardo's plastron, a long crack down the back. A patch of blood and exposed skin lay visible beneath the ragged edges of shell.

"What the hell happened?" Michelangelo said softly.

"I've been recording the healing process," Donatello said, "taking pictures every few minutes, but I've got another experiment going and Raph's totally worthless right now. So I need you to keep snapping pictures and let me know when he—"

Leonardo's eyes opened and focused on his little brother. Wide, intense, his gaze startled Michelangelo so much that he stumbled backward and landed with a jaw-jolting thud on the floor.

"Nevermind," Donatello said lowly, suddenly whispering and quick. "Okay, open it up and lay them out. I hope you got enough."

Michelangelo tore the bag and brought out five plastic bags of blood.

In an instant, Leonardo focused on the blood, but he couldn't move. His shoulders jerked as if he were a marionette with his strings pulled upright, and he closed his eyes again. His hands clenched into fists as he bent, head lowered, silent.

Donatello glanced at Michelangelo, then back at his brother. Biting his lip, Donatello watched Leonardo several seconds, his hand hovering over his staff still strapped on his back. When he thought his brother wasn't faking, he let go a long breath, not relaxing but no longer expecting to fight.

"Can you talk?" Donatello demanded.

Leonardo didn't respond except to tense until they heard bones creak.

"Can you control yourself?"

Leonardo tucked into a tighter curl. Michelangelo spotted the skin writhing under the crack riddling his shell, heard the sick _shuck_ of flesh pulling the crack a little closer together.

"Okay..." Donatello prepared the camera again. "I don't like the way the flash is going to mess with the lighting in here, but if I guess right, we're going to need a clear shot—"

One of the candles glowed, smoldered, then came to life. A few others began to glow, but the smoke trailing up to the ceiling stopped and grew dark again. The rest remained cold.

Donatello paused, looking around himself. "Leo? Was that you?"

No response except silence. In the stillness of the room, they couldn't even hear their brother breathe.

"He can do that," Michelangelo said, coming to his feet. He picked up one of the candles and began lighting the rest. "He did that when he brought me in after I found out. All at once, in a flash. Guess he can't do it right now."

"He needs to eat." Donatello turned off the flash and set the camera aside, instead bringing up a page on his laptop. He glanced at the screen, then at Leonardo, and jotted down a short code of letters and numbers.

"It doesn't look like he can," Michelangelo said.

Donatello didn't answer. When Michelangelo finished the last candle, he sat down again.

"Okay," Donatello said. "This is how it's going to work. Mikey, you'll cut the bag. If he doesn't lunge at it, push it closer to him—"

"He's not an animal," Michelangelo snapped.

"He's a vampire that has killed people," Donatello said. "Excuse me if I want to be super cautious. The only reason I don't have him locked up in a cage is because he can walk through doors. Now cut the bag."

Michelangelo gave his brother a look, but Donatello had developed a resistance to his pouts. With a huff, Michelangelo drew the knife from his belt and made a short thrust into the plastic. Leaving it on one side so it wouldn't spill, he edged it closer to Leonardo's hand.

"See?" Michelangelo muttered. "He isn't gonna tear into either of us."

"I'll believe that after several logged encounters," Donatello said, turning his attention back to their big brother. "Leo, don't eat too fast. Slow as you can. If you're anything like a starving human, you'll make yourself sick."

Leonardo made a soft sound that might have been an acknowledgement, but the only move he made was to ease his hand out along the floor, inch by inch, wincing as he stretched farther. When he managed to put his hand around the bag, he drew it back toward himself, easing his fingers underneath it. Then the slit in the plastic touched his lips—

Unnerving to see how silently Leonardo ate. He didn't have to breathe, didn't have to lap at a spilled drop. The bag barely crinkled, simply turning flat as everything inside was drawn out.

Michelangelo glanced sideways at Donatello, who looked between the timer on his laptop and his brother, recording how quickly Leonardo was able to eat. Michelangelo wondered why anyone would need that kind of information, noting all the different numbers on the screen.

When he finished, Leonardo lay unmoving, unresponsive. He didn't answer any of Donatello's questions, and he didn't react when Michelangelo gave up waiting and took the bag out from under his hand.

"Put that by me," Donatello said, nodding toward the bag. "Don't get rid of it."

"Really?" Michelangelo asked even as he did so.

"I want to see if there are any worthwhile samples inside," Donatello said. "To see how efficient his system is. And to see if he has any fluids like insects do, since vampire mythology mentions those sometimes. Or if there are contaminants."

"Contaminants?" Michelangelo echoed.

"To see if the bite is contagious," he said. "If licking you would make you turn into something like him."

"If it could," Michelangelo said, "we'd probably be vampires already. He ate off'a us both."

No answer. Donatello held his laptop closer to his brother, studying the screen and Leonardo's skin. He frowned.

"Next blood bag," Donatello said. "Be careful. His hand is right next to his mouth. I don't want him grabbing you."

With an exasperated sigh, Michelangelo cut the second bag, but instead of sliding it across the floor, this time he held it out to his brother.

Still no response. With Donatello vaguely muttering about both potential catatonia or thanatopsis, Michelangelo again put the bag under his brother's hand.

The response was instant, a faint pulling of the bag to his mouth. Color suffused his skin once more. This time, when Michelangelo took the bag again, he also noticed that Donatello was marking off his brother's deepening color on a color wheel with six digit color codes.

"What's it say?" Michelangelo asked.

"He darkens a little with each one," Donatello said, recording the next number. "But I'll need to see if it's regular or if it depreciates. At this rate, he's not going to regain his full color. Next one."

They went through the rest of the blood in that way, with their brother growing more recognizable, less pale. When Michelangelo picked up the sixth, he frowned.

"Maybe it's best if we don't use the last one," he murmured. "So I—"

"All of it," Donatello snapped. "Now."

Michelangelo flinched, looking at him in surprise. That hadn't sounded angry or even scared. Donatello sounded personally insulted that he'd been questioned.

"S'okay," he mumbled to himself, handing over the last bag. "They're like seven days old. They were gonna get tossed out today, so it was gonna go bad if he don't eat it anyway."

As Leonardo drained the last of the blood, as still as before, Donatello examined the other emptied bags and their dates.

"If it wasn't for his color changing," he said, his words clipped and curt, "I would've doubted the efficacy of these things. As it is, I'm seriously doubting his mental capacity right now. He's acting on pure autonomous response—no mind, pure hunger. Possibly because he was so injured. The white vampire he fought might have been acting on feral instinct as well, and that makes me question if this whole thing is just an act."

"'Thing'?" Michelangelo echoed.

"Acting like he's still our brother," Donatello said. "It could just be the compulsions of vampirism making him move and talk, like an advanced version of cordyceps."

"Don..." Michelangelo stared at him, slowly shaking his head. "He...he's not...I mean, he's still in there..."

"It's just conjecture," Donatello said, shrugging off his brother's concern. "If I really thought it was cordyceps, I would have walled off this room by now. Is he done?"

Silent, Michelangelo took away the last bag, empty of every drop. He nodded once.

"Finally."

Donatello gathered his computer and clipboard, standing up quickly. He stared at his older brother, his mouth in a firm line. Leonardo still lay curled on the floor, pale but no longer a starved shade of white, but he didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe. Donatello might have put a mirror to his brother's mouth to check for breath if he wasn't afraid he'd be bitten.

"You're going to stay here," Donatello ordered. "Do not leave."

No response. Donatello seemed to take that as an insult, scowling and continuing as if sure his brother could hear him.

"You stay put in here. If any of us even thinks you left this room, I'll find out exactly how that stake worked, got it? And we're sleeping in shifts, so don't get any bright ideas about making us forget anything."

Donatello turned and headed out, stopping just at the crucifix on the door. His little brother wasn't with him.

"Mikey, I need your help with something. Come on."

Michelangelo glanced at Leonardo, hesitating—he wanted to finish lighting the candles, put a pillow under his brother's head, maybe force him into bed—but he followed after his brother, closing the door softly behind himself. He had to jog to catch up to Donatello, who set a hard pace back to the lab.

"What did you need?" Michelangelo asked, following him into the lab. "Hey—"

"I don't need your help right now. I just didn't want you in there." Donatello put his things down on his desk. He sat down with a sigh, craning his head back and rotating his shoulders as he looked over his scribbled notes. While everyone else had been out, Donatello had been working and would likely continue to work long into the next day.

"Wait," Michelangelo said. "But what about—"

"Oh, for god's sake," Donatello sighed. "Go to bed. I scheduled you for the last shift and I can't deal with you right now."

"I'm not a lab rat you can stick back in a cage," Michelangelo snapped, putting his hands down hard on the desk, rattling the test tubes. "You're acting like a jerk—"

"Forgive me if I don't care about our serial killer's feelings," Donatello started.

"I'm not a serial killer, so what's your excuse?" Michelangelo said.

"Oh, I dunno!" Donatello said, glaring at his little brother. "Maybe I've been up for more than thirty hours now and I've got to decide if I can keep my undead brother alive or if it's more merciful for everyone involved to just make him all-the-way dead. I can't exactly ask for help 'cause Splinter and Raph are still in shock over whatever the hell happened tonight—I couldn't even get anything intelligible out of them—and my little brother is more concerned about Leo's feelings than anyone he might've killed."

Michelangelo tensed, feeling like he'd been slapped.

"You can pretend all you like," Donatello continued, his voice growing tight. "Pretend that you aren't afraid of him. But I saw you earlier. I saw you trying to fight his control. You know he's not the brother we thought we knew."

The thought hung in the air, made all the more real that Donatello had said it. Not sarcastically or in anger like Raphael, but as a cold, rational fact. Their brother had changed, they didn't know what that meant, and the only sane reaction was to keep Leonardo at a distance, to perhaps deny him utterly. And the thought was made worse by Michelangelo's absolute inability to argue any of it. Their brother had killed innocent people, had forced his brothers to do obscene things to each other, and felt no guilt over any of it.

Michelangelo stood straight and went to the door, almost went through, but he stopped himself and forced out a response.

"You're right," he said. "He's changed. And yeah, I'm scared."

Michelangelo looked over his shoulder. "Did you ever think how scared Leo probably is?"

"Scared at getting caught, sure," Donatello muttered.

Michelangelo scowled. "Don—"

The pen in Donatello's hand snapped.

"Dammit, Mikey, just stop already! Just stop!"

Stunned, Michelangelo didn't respond. His brother hadn't shouted so much as he'd shrieked, crying out as something inside had pulled too tight, nearly snapping.

Donatello tensed, forcing himself back under control, taking shallow, slow breaths.

"I don't..." Donatello coughed, raising his hand as if to silence Michelangelo. His hand wavered, fell uncertainly back to the desk. "He's...he's done bad things. Awful things. And if I stop and think about that too long, then I'm not going to be able to..."

Softening, Michelangelo noticed the black smudges under his brother's eyes, the stress lines around his face that belied his headache, the way he slouched when he normally sat straight. This was what two days of no sleep looked like, using science to distract himself from the horror of what had happened. Was still happening.

"I don't want him dead either..." Donatello started, then cut himself off. He put his hands on the table, clearly giving his last word on the subject. "If I'm going to help him—help us, then I can't waste time feeling sorry. Acting nice will only make these results compile slower. So...so get out of here and let me work."

Michelangelo didn't push any further. The problem wasn't Donatello, not really. He was just a convenient target, slowly revealing the real problem centered on their brother. Michelangelo left the lab silently and went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee by way of a peace offering, then passed his father and brother, still on the couch. Raphael had shifted so that he could put his head on Splinter's shoulder, tucking under his father's comforting arm.

"Michelangelo?" Splinter said, lifting his head. "Are you all right?"

Michelangelo thought about asking them about what had happened, but Donatello had said they were in shock, and he didn't want to make them relive whatever they'd seen. Raphael had latched onto their father like a child scared of the world, and Splinter held Raphael as if he might lose yet another child. He'd wait for either of them to say something first, and right now, they had each other.

He nodded quietly and went to his room, crawling into his bed and pulling his pillow into his arms. Sleep was a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowed down because of end of semester issues, and then everything has been coming slowly anyway. Writing sentences like pulling teeth. Plus I had to rewrite major massive parts of this and completely switch whole scenes around. Not an excuse, just an fyi. Please, just, if you ask me to "update soon" I am seriously at risk of just screaming and stopping in sheer self-defense.


	22. Chapter 22

Lost in fitful dreams of chasing the shadow of his brother down a long hallway that didn't end, Michelangelo woke staring at the dark ceiling, thinking he saw the darkness moving. But when he turned on his lamp, there were no shadows and no predatory brother lurking in his room. Huffing, he rolled over and hugged the pillow, sinking back toward sleep...and then caught the whiff of eggs and coffee.

After everything that had happened, someone downstairs was going through the routine of making breakfast. Michelangelo huffed and felt himself wake up fully. If they were going to pretend everything was normal, he couldn't let them do that alone.

He climbed out of bed, putting the blanket around his shoulders and dragging it behind himself as he shuffled to the kitchen table. Raphael clattered around the kitchen making breakfast while Splinter was already seated, resting his head in his hands.

"You okay?" Michelangelo asked, sitting with him.

"I..." Splinter looked up as Donatello came out of the kitchen, setting a cup of steaming tea before him. "Thank you. I am still weary. I did not sleep well last night. None of us did, I imagine."

A bitter mumble came from the kitchen. Michelangelo ignored whatever Raphael had said.

"No one woke me up to keep watch?" he asked. "I thought we were taking shifts."

"I haven't gone to sleep," Donatello said, leaning against the table as he drank the dregs of his coffee. "I'll crash in a minute. Raph can keep up for awhile now. Look in on Leo now and then."

Michelangelo looked away, glancing at his brother's closed door. Then looked back at Donatello, who seemed less exhausted than Michelangelo felt. But then he filled up his coffee cup once more, and Michelangelo winced. His brother was the only person he knew who could beat himself down so far that he could tumble into bed despite another cup.

"Don," he started. "I'm sorry I—"

Donatello waved his apology away.

"I get it," he said. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't so damn optimistic. Just—don't forget what he is now."

"I won't," Michelangelo said. "If...um. If you don't forget _who_ he is."

Donatello gave him a look. "When I can verify that, I'll let you know."

Not wanting to start an argument again, Michelangelo didn't challenge him.

Breakfast came out, Raphael bringing plates of eggs and toast, a tea kettle and coffee pot. No one spoke, and Michelangelo tried not to scrape the dish with his fork, all too aware of the awkward silence. The only sound filling the room was the soft tap of Donatello's fingertips on his tablet.

"Anything interesting?" Michelangelo asked, more to fill the empty air than anything else.

"I'm still recording data," Donatello said, stifling a yawn. "It'll be a few days before I can say anything even tentatively."

"Oh," Michelangelo said, looking back down at his plate. "I, uh, I thought you were looking at the news."

"...huh." Donatello frowned, glancing aside. "No. Not the news."

The empty chair stood in the middle. Leonardo's usual seat, and Raphael had even put down a plate before he remembered.

"Do you think he can?" Raphael asked softly. "Eat, I mean. Like normal."

"...I'll add that to the experiments to try," Donatello said. "When he's more responsive."

"I doubt he can," Splinter said. "At dinner, he threw away whatever he took. I thought he was simply nervous and lost his appetite..."

Nervous about revealing his feelings for his siblings. None of them looked at each other. That Leonardo's desire had turned predatory only made their own love feel so much more poisoned. Michelangelo pushed aside the rest of his plate.

"Well, I can ask him today," he said, forcing a smile. "See if he'll talk to me—"

"No way," Raphael said, his voice the loudest over Splinter's softer "no, my son" and Donatello's flat "not a good idea."

Michelangelo blinked, leaning back. "Uh...what?"

"You ain't going in there alone with him," Raphael said, half-standing out of his seat. "You're way too tempting a snack."

"After last night," Splinter said, putting a hand on Raphael's shoulder to quiet him. "It would not be wise for any of you to be alone with your brother. No doubt he is still healing."

"Actually," Donatello said, "it's the amount of blood that worries me. I'd say hit another blood bank, but we don't need the heightened security that'd bring. He can wait a little bit, I think. The healing looked about done."

"What healing?" Michelangelo looked from his brothers to Splinter and back again. None of them said anything. "I know you said he got hurt, but then you said he was already looking normal when I got back. Just that he'd gone all white."

"My concern exactly," Donatello said. "He's still too pale. I don't trust his reactions right now."

"You didn't trust him before," Michelangelo said. "So what's the difference?"

"You didn't see how hurt he was," Raphael said, but the anger went out of his voice until he was only speaking in a low tone. "You didn't see it. He was like...oh man."

"Regardless," Donatello said. "It doesn't matter how bad it was. Just trust me that you shouldn't—"

"How bad was it?" Michelangelo asked.

Again they went silent, and Raphael even reached out to touch Splinter's hand. Donatello put his tablet down, yawning once, wiping away tears borne of exhaustion.

"Bad enough that I don't want you to—"

Michelangelo's fist, clenched in frustration, knocked solidly against the table. The loud clatter made them all tense. Startled at his own reaction, Michelangelo forced his hand to open, setting it flat by his plate. But as much as he didn't want to badger his family, this not-knowing felt like it was scraping his skull.

"I think I've about had it," he said, "with you treating me like the baby in this family. All of you saw him hurt. If it was really that bad, then let me see it."

"You just ate," Raphael muttered.

"Donnie," Michelangelo said, "you said you had pictures."

"What?" Splinter gasped. "You...?"

"I had to!" Donatello said, his glare at Michelangelo turning into a wide eyed defense. "I had to record the rate of healing. It might be important later."

"Yeah," Michelangelo said, "like now."

Donatello glanced between the three of them. Just having the photos was reopening Splinter's shock, still recovering, and Raphael fared little better. Likewise, Michelangelo's growing indignation bolstered his protective love for Leonardo, driving away his fear until he forgot to be scared of his sibling.

That was what ultimately convinced Donatello. Setting the photographs back to the beginning, he slid the tablet over to Michelangelo.

"Maybe you'll remember what he is," Donatello said. "If you see it."

At first Michelangelo didn't recognize what he was looking at. It looked like meat torn and ground up. He could make out the plastron, the curved edge of the shell, but the line of the plastron stopped, interrupted by a webwork of cracks all radiating out from the giant hole in the center. White bone lay exposed under darkly red flesh torn so far that he couldn't tell what was muscle and what was organ.

He put his hand over his mouth. The gray gleam underneath was concrete showing through his brother's body.

The next photograph was pulled back enough that he saw his brother's head, twisted too far to one side as his neck slid with his shoulder. Something had sawn through his collarbone, leaving it splintered and crushed, and the slice had extended almost to the hole in his chest. Michelangelo had the feeling that whatever had attacked his brother had tried to pull him in half.

In the next photograph, Leonardo had been cleaned of blood, exposing more of the wound. With time stamps reading five minutes apart, his brother slowly came back together. The gaping wound in his chest began to close. His collar bone straightened. The shards were piled on the side—

Michelangelo looked up at Donatello.

"You cleaned it out," he whispered, putting his hand over his mouth. "Even that bad, you cleaned it out."

Donatello glanced at him with tired eyes, his whole body slumped.

"He's too stubborn to die," Donatello said, sitting down in resignation. "I knew he wouldn't give up."

"But you see?" Raphael said. "He came back from...that. He ain't Leo. He's something else. Nothing comes back like that."

Michelangelo flipped through the photographs, watching his brother mend. At the end, his brother looked merely asleep. Albino, but asleep.

Almost apologetically, he set the tablet down on the coffee table by Donatello.

"Yeah," he said softly. "That was pretty bad."

"You didn't see him pull himself off of it," Raphael said. "It wasn't like he was alive. It was like he was doing it automatically. Like a robot."

Michelangelo looked at them, biting his lip. Then quietly stood and turned toward Leonardo's room.

"Dammit, Mikey—" Raphael started.

"I wouldn't wanna be left alone," Michelangelo said, glancing over his shoulder. "Not after that."

"You shouldn't," Donatello said, fighting back another yawn. "You're compromised."

"Huh?"

"Leo controlled you. We don't know how far that goes."

"I do." Michelangelo went into his brother's room, standing at the doorway. "He made a promise, and so far he hasn't broken it. I'll let you know how he's doing."

After a moment's thought, he looked over his shoulder again. "Anything you want me to ask him?"

But Donatello was asleep, half-draped against Raphael's side, and Raphael was gathering him up, taking him to the couch. As Raphael arranged the cushion under his head, Splinter answered for him.

"Ask Leonardo what he intends to do."

Michelangelo waited for him to explain. When Splinter didn't, Michelangelo nodded once, uncertainly, and went inside.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids

The room was painfully still. The candles had burned down to nothing, leaving only a single candle burning in the corner. The floor was empty. In the gloom, Michelangelo had to let his eyes adjust for several seconds, scanning the room. For a moment, he worried that his brother had become a mass of shadows on the ceiling.

He took the candle and began lighting the others. A great deal of them were little more than burnt wicks drowned under hard wax. What few remained were only enough to create a flickering glow that barely reached the edges of the room. But that was all Michelangelo needed. Leonardo was too pale to blend into the darkness.

Crumpled in the far corner, Leonardo sat against the wall, facing the bricks. One arm crossed his body, his hand resting on his shoulder, drawing in on himself. His other hand lay in his lap, his legs at an awkward angle under himself.

"Are you better now?" Michelangelo whispered.

When there was no reply, he bent and tried to see his brother's face. Leonardo's eyes were shut, and his shoulder had drawn up, raising his shell just that much higher.

Michelangelo sat down on the bed. A small plume of dust puffed into the air, shone in the candle light, then faded from view again.

"Don doesn't mean to be a jerk," Michelangelo said. "He's just tired and stressed. And scared."

He glanced at Leonardo again. Still no movement. With a heavy sigh, Michelangelo flopped back onto the bed, holding his hand up at the ceiling and watching the faint light through his silhouetted fingers. If Leonardo wasn't going to talk, then Michelangelo would keep the conversation going alone.

"He's really trying, though. It's not his fault he's scared. And Raph and Splinter...man, I didn't know what happened 'cause no one told me, but that really was super bad. Don said that there was probably pieces of your shell chipping off the whole way back."

Michelangelo glanced at his brother again, but he couldn't make out any marks on his shell.

"So you must've been in a fight, huh? With something stronger than you. Why're all the monsters coming out now? It's like you changed, so now all of them wanna come out to play. And if you got that hurt...I'm guessing that you didn't win. Man, I'm glad Raph and sensei were okay then. Anything you couldn't whip had to be pretty tough.

"And the whole blood thing. Wow. I mean, wouldn't have thought that you'd turn white. Kinda creepy. I don't think Donny's right, by the way. I don't think it's the vampire—um, the vampire'ness in you making you act all weird."

He sat up again, fidgeting, stretching his legs and then relaxing. Lowering his head and then staring at the ceiling.

"I had a lot of time to think, running across town for that blood. So...you've killed people before. A lot of them. 'Cause Splinter said to. I don't think Raph and Donny have thought about that. I mean, they heard you say it, but they're so wrapped up in what you did before that they haven't really let it sink in, right? Probably can't absorb that much right now. Big bro's a killer and a vampire and, well, kinda a pervy creeper—sorry, but yeah. But. Well. Yeah.

"So. You don't see people as, well, people. Just us. Okay, I get that. People can be real awful. You're scared of 'em. Splinter's scared of 'em, too, then. Right? And it's not like you were going out of your way to kill people. To you, um, to both of you, it's just keeping us safe from monsters.

"...I guess you get that I'm not exactly agreeing with it. People can be real cool, too. They... I mean, there are some cool as hell video games and movies and stuff. And...man, I don't even know where I'm going with this now. I guess it's just, I'm real glad you didn't kill anyone else last night. While you were out there. Before you got in the fight. 'Least, I'm assuming you didn't. I figure Splinter would've noticed and said something. So, um, thanks for that."

The walls seemed to absorb his voice. He felt like he was shouting even though he spoke quieter and quieter until he was whispering. He glanced at his brother again. Now that his eyes were adjusted, he saw how Leonardo's skin clung too close to his bones, drawn taut around his shell. The candle light created shadows that outlined every line of his muscles, too defined, a harsh contrast of cold shadow swallowing up what little was left of him.

"Um, I better get you some more candles," Michelangelo said, watching another candle burn to nothing, wisped out by its own wax. The room grew that much darker.

"I'll bring 'em back with me later. And hopefully hit another blood bank. It's not so bad if their blood's about to get tossed, right? I promise I'll be back, 'kay? If Don's back first, or Raph, don't be mad at them?"

He glanced back at Leonardo.

And froze.

Eyes wide, unblinking, Leonardo had turned his head to face him.

Just his head. Subtle—a human might have missed the wrongness of it, but Michelangelo lived in a shell. A turtle's head was not meant to twist that far, not as the rest of him still faced the corner.

And then Leonardo twisted at the waist, bending to put his hands on the floor. Then his legs finally followed, and Leonardo lay across the concrete, never taking his eyes off of Michelangelo.

Then his right arm jerked forward, then his left arm, his limbs all moving independently, twitching, his head tilting hard, like an insect with broken legs, dragging himself far too swiftly across the floor, crawling up against the bed, pulling himself up onto the mattress. And Michelangelo couldn't move, frozen like ice so that he couldn't even open his mouth, locked in place as the thing with his brother's face crawled over him, hands clamping over Michelangelo's shoulders, pressing him down on the bed so that he felt like he'd be crushed. Leonardo was cold, laying on top of him like ice, pushing his face against his little brother's throat.

Michelangelo lifted his head, trying to draw in a breath. If he could breathe, if he could scream for help before—

Leonardo stopped moving.

His hands relaxed, curled softly around Michelangelo's shoulders. His face still lay so close to his brother's throat, but tucked under his chin rather than at his jugular.

Michelangelo couldn't move. His jaw clenched. Maybe Leonardo had commanded him to stay still? But no...he managed to bend his fingers, to turn his head down just enough to see his brother clinging to him.

"...dude?"

No answer, but Leonardo made a strange guttural sound somewhere in his chest and shifted slightly.

Swallowing once, Michelangelo put his arms around his brother, holding him in return.

"It's okay," he murmured. "I'm here. I'll stay here."

Someone would come in soon enough. If they'd been listening at all, and he was sure they were, then his family would come in to make sure he was safe. He would keep lying here with Leonardo, warming him.

Without the candles, he grew uncomfortably aware of his brother's temperature. Cold, like he'd stood out in a snowstorm. Grimacing, Michelangelo reached down for the blanket and sighed when he found it tightly tucked in.

"Geez," he sighed. "You're still such a neat freak."

He managed to gather the blanket's edge, tugging the cloth into his fist, then yanking it out from under the mattress. Leonardo's hands tensed on him, clinging tighter.

"Relax, relax." Michelangelo winced. "Not so tight, dammit—I'm not going anywhere."

Leonardo shifted again, trying to press flush against him. Strange croaks and strangled sounds came out of his throat, painful to hear. His grip loosened.

"There, better," Michelangelo said, hissing as Leonardo's fingers stopped digging. "I'm just trying to get the blanket over us. I know you don't like being this cold."

He finally pulled up enough of the blanket, tossing it over them. He only managed to get it over a little of Leonardo's shell, but it was tight around his own side, and already he began to feel warmer.

There was a soft knock on the door. It opened, and a hand swept over the light switch, flipping it rapidly when nothing happened.

"Fuckin'..." Raphael sighed. "Fuckin', Chinese lantern lovin'...he ain't never gonna fix this light now..."

Raphael came in, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the single candle. He looked at the floor, then at the corners.

"Over here," Michelangelo said softly. "On the bed."

Raphael's eyes widened as he sucked in a breath. Michelangelo tensed, shaking his head quickly.

"No, no, no, it's okay, it's okay." Michelangelo tried to push himself up only to wince again as Leonardo clung tight again. "He...well, he's not hurting me."

"...Jesus." Raphael stared at him, then glanced over his shoulder. Then sighed and looked back at them. "Shit. Okay. Shit—Donny ain't worth shit when he's this tired. He...Leo ain't hurting you?"

"Only when he thinks I'm..." Michelangelo read the growing glare on Raphael's face. "No, it's great, we're fine. Just holding me."

"Then get up," Raphael said, one hand slipping to the sai at his belt. "If he ain't—"

"Okay, y'know what?" Michelangelo growled. "How about you just quit looking for any excuse to—?"

Raphael took a step toward them. Michelangelo put his arm back, trying to sit up, wincing as Leonardo held on harder. He lifted himself halfway, leaning on his arm, holding his brother with his other hand. He had the idea of turning to shield his brother with his shell—

The strained cry from Leonardo startled both of them. Michelangelo craned his neck, trying to see his brother's face. Impossible as Leonardo pressed harder, pushing his face against Michelangelo's throat and trembling. The sounds coming out of him were not normal, not alive, not even sane. His fingers curled around Michelangelo's plastron, scraping his side as if he was slipping away and couldn't stop himself.

"Whoa, whoa," Michelangelo said, putting both arms around him again. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere. You're okay. I'm right here."

But Leonardo didn't stop, and Michelangelo looked up at Raphael as if he might know what to do. Raphael met his look, blinking hard and shaking his head once.

"Crap, right, right..."

Raphael brought something from behind his shell. Michelangelo didn't recognize it at first, only realizing what it was when Raphael brought out a handful of blood bags. They tumbled out onto the mattress, and Raphael picked one up only to stare at Michelangelo again.

"How...what do I...?"

"Poke one of 'em," Michelangelo said. "With your sai—"

Raphael was already tearing a small hole in one of the bags. He held it out to Leonardo, too curious in feeding his brother than to think that his hand could all too easily be snatched and brought to his brother's wicked teeth. Michelangelo had such faith in the blood bags that Raphael found himself coming close despite himself.

Leonardo snatched the blood close, putting the rip to his mouth. The blood vanished almost instantly. A second bag followed—

Then a loud, deep gasp as Leonardo raised his head, throwing aside the bag as he clung to Michelangelo again, gasping for air. He drew a loud breath, held it, then let it out with a shudder and gasped again. He breathed painfully loudly for several seconds, and Michelangelo used the chance to sit up properly, pulling his shaking brother into his lap.

"Get the blanket," Michelangelo said, nodding at the foot of the bed. "Bring it up."

Raphael obeyed, pulling the bedding out. With both of them so high up on the bed, the blanket came to Michelangelo's shoulders, a comforting weight around him and his brother.

Leonardo's gasps turned into low, incomprehensible sobs. The edges of words became audible, choked consonants that Michelangelo tried to piece together.

"Slower," Michelangelo said softly, "slower. Come on, slow down. I'm here. Raph's here. You're okay—"

"—couldn't breathe." Leonardo coughed, took several rushed breaths that made him cough again. "I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe..."

"What?" Michelangelo's brow creased.

"Oh." Raphael turned, sitting on the mattress. His head fell as he leaned forward, his gaze turning distant at the memory. Cold chills settled through his body. "Fuck."

Michelangelo closed his eyes. Awake, but not able to breathe. Not able to move. Was that what it felt like to die? Leonardo had hovered at the moment before death, unable to slip away, horribly aware.

He continued to hold Leonardo, fidgeting with the blankets, turning so that he wasn't putting all of his weight on Michelangelo's leg, then shifting his arm so that he could better touch his brother's face. He ran his thumb under Leonardo's eye, caressing his cheek. A faint line of blood colored his skin.

"No crying," Michelangelo said softly. "You ain't got the blood to spare."

"Got a couple more bags," Raphael said automatically, not looking at them. "Hit the free clinic this morning. I can get more later..."

The last two bags of blood were emptied, leaving Leonardo only a few shades from his normal color, and the longer he went without doing anything more than clinging to Michelangelo, the more Raphael relaxed and let himself believe that his brother wasn't a mindless killer.

With Leonardo panting heavily on his shoulder, Michelangelo kept up the constant touch, stroking his face, running his fingers along the line of his shell.

"Maybe you could try to sleep," Michelangelo said.

Leonardo shook his head once, still drawing deep breaths. He breathed in less because he needed to and more to feel the air rushing through him, reassuring himself that he could.

"Think he can hyperventilate?" Raphael wondered.

"Don't wanna find out," Michelangelo said, rubbing his brother's shell. A thin raised line went from the top of Leonardo's shell down toward its center. A scar.

"You haven't slept for a week," Michelangelo said. "It can't hurt—"

Leonardo's protest moaned out of him, a wordless wail, and his shoulders shook under Michelangelo's hand.

"I can't..." Leonardo's voice cracked, and his words jumbled and faded until he was incomprehensible.

Michelangelo frowned. "What—?"

He glanced at Raphael, but he only shrugged and shook his head. No help there. Michelangelo gave Leonardo a soft shake.

"Come on," he said, "talk to me."

Broken breathing. Choked sob. Faint lines of blood streaking his eyes, squeezed shut.

"I can't sleep," Leonardo breathed, choking on his words. "I saw him, and he was dead. I don't want you to see me...I..."

He shook his head, tiny little shakes as his voice caught.

"I can't do this anymore. I just wanted to come home...I just wanted to be home..."

It had all made sense only a few days ago. Different now, but couldn't he pretend nothing had changed. Meditate instead of sleep, throw away food he didn't eat, slow down as he fought. Give his brothers what they cried for at night. Just a small change here, an adjustment there. He didn't have to admit that he'd died. As long as he could hide it...

Until he couldn't hide it anymore, and they hated him forever.

The thought made him convulse, keeping down the blood they'd stolen for him only through force of will.

"I can't do it anymore..."

Silence followed. Michelangelo couldn't imagine what to say. There was nothing he could say to make any of this better. Monster, murderer, predator, and all the worse because he knew Leonardo didn't care about that. Leonardo couldn't stand being alone from them. That was all.

"Then don't."

Raphael cut mercilessly to the quick. Michelangelo looked up in shock, afraid that Raphael meant to encourage Leonardo to suicide.

"You always act like you fucking know everything," Raphael said. "You could've just—"

He bit off the rising insult. Too easy. He needed to be better than that. He squared his shoulders and met his brother's eyes, as bloodshot from tears as Raphael's were from sleeplessness.

"Stop trying to be in control. Do what we say. Stop acting like we're gonna hurt you." He nodded at the bags on the floor. "We're doing our damndest to take care of you, so stop acting like we're the enemy."

To his satisfaction, Leonardo glanced away, bowing his head slightly. Flinching but not arguing.

"We'll...figure something out." Raphael sighed. "And if we can't..."

Michelangelo bit his lip.

"If we can't—" Raphael forced himself to say it. "Then we'll be with you. It'll be painless. You won't be alone. Okay?"

Leonardo couldn't bring himself to look. But he nodded once, firmly. And he relaxed his hold on Michelangelo, reassured that he would stay.

Much, much later, when Raphael finally stood, bone weary and miserable, he glared at his little brother.

Michelangelo smiled unrepentantly, mouthing "thanks."

"You're the baby," Raphael muttered, "'cause you keep acting like it."

The insult slid off of Michelangelo, who adjusted the blanket as it began to slip. He couldn't be scolded, not now. Not when Leonardo lay beside him, nestled against his side, his face relaxed but not dead, his body still but breathing steadily.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Part 24**

The underground tunnels of New York were usually dark. Even though a few had utility lights wired into the walls, flooding, tight funds and the lack of city workers moving through them meant that the sewers and cisterns of the city were normally pitch black, punctuated by moonbeams and lamplight through the street gutters.

In the lair, Donatello had fought back the darkness one bulb at a time. Powerful LEDs lit his desk and garage, but those lights were hard to get a hold of. He usually had to steal them from hardware stores or, more often, from Purple Dragon hideouts, raiding their gear after knocking heads. Instead, most of the bulbs in the lair were incandescent, soft whites light that lit the dojo and the kitchen.

In the living room, however, he hadn't been able to place electrical sockets. Flooding didn't happen often, not with his safeguards-raised steps, holes he'd blasted through other tunnels-but he couldn't risk even the smallest amount of water running over an exposed outlet. So Michelangelo's television and game lay in the corner, connected by a long extension cord to the kitchen. A pair of battery powered lamps stood on the corner tables on either side of the couch.

Muted gold light warmed the living room, creating a dim haze that didn't touch the walls. On the couch, Michelangelo had flopped against the sturdy armrest, claiming the biggest blanket they had. On his other side, Leonardo had found a comfortable way to nestle on the couch with him, legs drawn up so as to make himself seem as small as possible. The rest of Michelangelo's blanket lay over him wrapping him up in his brother's warmth and shielding him from view.

On the couch across from them, Splinter sat alone, resting on his walking stick as he stared at the floor, idly using the end of his stick to trace nonsense symbols on the rug. He had not looked up since his sons had gathered. If he looked at his eldest son, he only remembered the blood, the torn flesh, the dark specter blurring past him with a demonic wail.

On the sofa next to Michelangelo, Donatello held his tablet up so he could see Leonardo and the screen simultaneously. He squinted, adjusting for the light, and marked down his brother's shade of green.

"You did say it was just two bags," Donatello said. "Right?"

Raphael sat on the floor, leaning on the coffee table. The other couch had a squeaky spring, and he couldn't make himself sit without fidgeting.

"Yeah," Raphael answered. "Then he started breathing again. But he had the last bag after that."

"Three then." Donatello tilted his tablet, readying it to record. "Could you put a couple candles on the table?"

"Huh?" Raphael leaned up, spotting the box that Donatello nudged with his foot. He scooped a handful of long tapered candles, then finished the last bits of soda in his glass and stuck the candles inside. It wasn't neat, but the candles stayed upright.

"Leo," Donatello said, looking not at his brother but at his tablet. "Now that you've...eaten, you can light those, right?"

Not lifting his head from where he lay on Michelangelo's shoulder, Leonardo glanced silently at his brother. He nodded once.

"I'm going to start recording. When I tell you, I want you to light them. All right?"

Leonardo glanced at the candles, shifting under the blanket. His gaze slipped toward Splinter, then back to the candles when Splinter wouldn't look up.

"Annnd..." Donatello held the tablet still and tapped the screen. "Okay, go ahead."

They all looked at the candle wicks. Leonardo bit his lip, feeling the weight of their stares. His instinct was to hide this ability. Even now that they knew what he was, perhaps especially now, he wanted little more than to crawl into Michelangelo's room and hide forever. He had to drag up the power, forcing himself to reveal it in front of them.

The wicks glowed red, sent up thin wisp of smoke, and then smoldered into small flames.

Despite knowing it would happen, Donatello breathed in sharply. He stopped recording and played it back, running the video frame by frame. Pixel by pixel, tiny flames appeared out of thin air.

"How do you do that?" he murmured.

At first Leonardo wouldn't talk. He had done what they wanted. Why did he have to spill even more secrets? Like baring his throat to a hunter. But he caught Raphael's warning grunt, caught Donatello's impatient tapping on the tablet.

Raphael had said they weren't going to hurt him. It wasn't any easier to believe. Only Michelangelo's hand rubbing warm circles on his shell moved him to answer.

"I have to think hard," Leonardo said slowly. "Focus on it. It's easier when I'm meditating."

"Huh." If his reluctance bothered him, Donatello didn't show it, instead jotting the note down on his clipboard. "I wonder if that has something to do with the heightened focus, or if it's the same thing you use when you're sensing people."

"I don't..." Leonardo frowned. "I don't know. I lit the first one on fire. It burned him all the way to nothing, but it didn't feel like I was trying all that hard."

"The 'first one'?" Donatello echoed. His head lifted slightly as he realized. "You mean the vampire that attacked you. You burned him?"

"What do you mean, 'to nothing'?" Raphael asked.

"It was after..." Leonardo's throat seemed to close up on him. He burrowed down against Michelangelo's side, but his little brother wouldn't let him hide under the blanket.

"After you died," Raphael guessed. "You know, you still ain't told us what happened."

"I don't want to," Leonardo said, his voice muffled in the cloth.

"Tell you what," Donatello said, setting his tablet to record again. "You tell it to us once, as much detail as you can. And I won't ask again."

Turning just enough to see him from the corner of his eye, Leonardo gazed at him skeptically.

"Promise," Donatello said. "Just once, if you can give me everything you remember."

Leonardo made a face, burrowing in the blanket again. He tensed up hard, shaking as every muscle tightened. No, not this, please not this again...

"Come on," Michelangelo said softly, tugging on his hand. "I'm right here. Ain't going nowhere. You can do this."

No, I can't, Leonardo thought, but he heaved a long sigh, pressing his hand against his face. No choice. He curled the soft edge in the fingers of his free hand.

"I..."

He hesitated as Donatello tilted the tablet so it could face him, recording everything. Leonardo's gaze fell again.

"I don't remember that much. We were running...I took the shortcut through the alley."

"Ryders alley, right?" Raphael asked. "I remember you dropped down into the park. You always take that route instead of the rooftops."

"Ryders alley is pitch black," Donatello said, wincing.

Leonardo nodded once. "I never saw it. Him. Something heavy landed on my shell and I hit the ground." He swallowed once, reflexively. "Laughing. It was laughing. It said 'don't scream.' And then it bit me, and I...I don't remember anything until I was on the floor. The white...floor..."

A white floor that stretched endlessly in front of his face, white tile that stretched farther and farther into shadow. He began to tense again. The shadow came closer as his body clenched, refusing to drag in any air-it was so heavy on top of him, pressing him painfully onto the floor-

"I'm right here," Michelangelo murmured, putting his hand around Leonardo's, lightly rubbing his palm and fingers. "I'm right here. It's okay."

Leonardo coughed, forcing himself to exhale. He raggedly breathed in, closing Michelangelo's hand in his own. He nodded once, visibly gathering himself together.

"A white floor," Donatello said, forcing him to keep going. "Can you remember what else was in the room? The details."

Act like he was studying an empty room, a crime scene. It was Donatello's way of trying to spare his feelings, Leonardo knew. He latched onto it gratefully.

"I...there was." He closed his eyes. "White cabinets. A sink. Those curtains you see in hospital rooms, a couple of those. Fluorescent lights. A couple were broken."

"Sounds like a clinic," Raphael said.

"A couple steel hospital things. The kind they roll out of ambulances."

"Gurneys," Donatello said.

"There was a..." Leonardo stared at the floor. "There was a. Dead body. On one of them."

"Another victim?" Donatello said more than asked.

"...no."

Leonardo didn't want to see his brother's face right then, the realization. The way the dead body would compare with himself when he slept. His little brother had managed to coax him to sleep, but Leonardo hadn't had the courage to ask Michelangelo if he'd looked dead, too. A vampire couldn't hide its true nature while unconscious, it seemed. That Michelangelo could hold him after holding his corpse was astonishing to him.

"I-I tried to pick the lock. I broke one of my lockpicks, I think. And then I got the door open, and...and he was behind me. He forced the door shut. He..."

Leonardo held one hand up, vaguely waving at the memory.

"I don't...it was confused. I couldn't tell what was happening. I remember it hurt. He bit...here."

He put his hand on his collar where plastron met skin.

"It felt like he was pulling, like he wanted to pull pieces out. I couldn't feel anything. Just cold."

Leonardo fell silent, eyes closed. If he thought too hard, he could feel the hard points of the creature's teeth in his body, covering his throat and shoulder.

When he didn't speak after several seconds, Donatello exchanged a look with Raphael and Michelangelo, who was insistently mouthing "enough" and "let it go for now." Donatello glanced at him, then back at Leonardo.

"It wasn't fast," Donatello said. "Was it?"

Still not looking up, Leonardo shook his head.

"Not like you," Donatello said, ignoring Michelangelo's dropped jaw that he would go there. "You kill quick."

Leonardo glanced at him, wary, not sure where he was taking this.

"One of your victims barely had time to scream," Donatello said. " That's what you told Mikey. Your victims didn't feel anything."

Feeling like he was being led into a trap, Leonardo nevertheless gave a slow nod. He'd promised to tell everything.

"The vampire who attacked you-why did he take so long?"

Leonardo blinked. Looked at the floor again, but his look turned inward. True, he had absolutely destroyed those humans, devouring each in a heartbeat. One had even dropped with a smile still on her face even if her eyes were overly wide in surprise. So why had the vampire struggled to kill Leonardo?

"My shell, maybe?" Leonardo wondered, his hand ghosting along the path the vampire's fangs had taken. His brothers cringed at how wide his hand swept a path over his collar.

But he found himself sitting more upright. Calm. Donatello had given him a way to look back over the attack like watching a kata. He could mentally step back and watch the ugly face clamped onto his body, watch his teeth twist into his own fangs.

"I don't know," he said. "But then I was biting him back. I kind of...pulled at his head while I bit down as hard as I could. He was.. I kind of...bit him down the middle."

"Horizontally?" Donatello asked, making a cutting motion with his hand across his waist.

"Huh?" Leonardo watched him. "Oh. No, not like that. Like this."

He brought his hand down from his shoulder to his waist. "Down the middle. I didn't really know what I was doing. It just hurt so bad I wasn't thinking."

"Geez." Donatello shuddered, realizing how broad that bite had to have been. He remembered seeing Leonardo's fangs up close and imagined them tearing with full purpose into someone else. The wound would have been nightmarish. "Okay. God. Okay. Then what happened?"

"...I couldn't get up." Leonardo spoke flatly, mentally watching himself fall back to the floor, his hand scrabbling uselessly on the tile. "Something was badly torn in me. I couldn't see. Then I couldn't breathe. I remember thinking of you...and then..."

And then he'd died. Unspoken but impossible to avoid. Impossible to say. No one wanted to admit it. Even Raphael had turned away, facing the far wall.

"And then you woke up," Donatello said.

Leonardo remembered the strange feeling of sitting up without effort, without pain. Of studying the clinic quickly, the sound of water in the pipes and the leaky faucet he hadn't heard before.

"I wanted to come home," he said. "I saw him lying there. He kind of caught fire while I was looking, and then I came home as fast as I could, and..."

And they had attacked him. And he made them forget. And kept making them forget, hiding his new nature, turning hostile to Splinter. Sipped mouthfuls of blood and forced them to indulge their base desires.

They still hated him for that, he knew.

"Leo..." Donatello said, tapping the edge of the table thoughtfully. "How many times have you killed people?"

Grateful for the subject shift, Leonardo started to count. "In the sewers?"

"No," Donatello said, although his gaze flicked toward Splinter. "As a vampire. To eat."

"Oh." Leonardo started to shrug, halting as the movement pulled at his newly healed rip. "Um. Once."

"Really?" Donatello said. "You went a whole week with just one...well. Meal?"

"I had you." Leonardo couldn't help the faint smile as he remembered. "I mean, I wouldn't call it a lot. I never took much at all, and I spread it over all of you during the week. I didn't want you getting sick or weak-"

"Got it, yes," Donatello grimaced. "But you've just gone through a bunch of blood. Granted, you were hurt, but it's been almost two weeks now. You've killed four people and had twelve pints. Now from the photos I pulled from the police report, I'm pretty damn sure you only took like four pints from your victims. So something's not adding up."

Leonardo stared blankly at him. "I...what?"

"It...okay, the math doesn't matter," Donatello sighed. "What I mean is, from the sound of it, the vampire who attacked you was trying to get every last drop. I mean, I won't be certain of how vampires attack until I see more than just you, but the question remains. Why can you get by on just a couple pints? That's not even a pint a night, and you had terrible injuries."

He stopped recording and switched to a screen showing one of several charts he'd made, data recorded in a long bar graph.

"I compared your tissue to that of the thing you killed down here." He pointed at the different colors. "You're this one. The other vampire is the red bar. Now, if you look at the different saturation points, you'll see that you're at a much higher lever. The other vampire, though, is more than half below yours. See?"

Sounding as if his point was obvious, Donatello instead found his mystified family quietly waiting for him to explain. He sighed even louder and put his tablet down.

"It means," he started slowly, "that in comparing the two of you, the other vampire was starving. You turned white because you didn't have enough. It stands to reason that it went white for the same reason."

"Including its hair?" Raphael asked. "That's kinda weird. Wouldn't hair stay the same color?"

"Hair is dead matter," Donatello said, hand waving his question. "Vampires are dead matter. I need to study my samples before I say for sure, but that universality of vampiric material would explain why hair changes color. Heck, that would explain why Leo's shell changed. Shells are keratin, too."

"I'm...okay, yeah, sure, that makes total sense," Raphael nodded with wide eyes. "Sure."

Increasingly frustrated that he was the only one who understood his analysis, Donatello glared at Leonardo. "Tell me-are you hungry?"

Leonardo brought one arm up as if the question were an attack, as if they would find a way to lock him up right then.

"N-no. Not really. I mean, it's always kind of there in the back of my mind, but-"

"But you're not about to go kill a bunch of drunks in front of a bar," Donatello said, not really asking.

Leonardo shook his head once.

"It makes sense," Donatello said. "You're a predator. Predators in the wild can go a long time without eating. And these other vampires came looking for you-one came underground and the other one found you. In the whole city, it managed to find you. Maybe they're pissed you're horning in on their territory or that you killed off one of their own, or else they're pissed you broke the masquerade."

All of them had been following his simplified explanation, but they all frowned at that last part.

"'Masquerade'?" Leonardo echoed.

"It's..." Donatello growled at himself. "It's a dumb book...game...thing. Whatever. It doesn't matter. You ripped four people apart so bad that all New York is swearing it's a wild animal on the loose. If vampires exist, they're keeping hidden. So you doing that risked everyone finding out. The more you attack people, the more likely it is that people find out that vampires are real."

"So..." Michelangelo said, sounding out the words slowly as he put it together. "'Cause Leo went and murdered people in public...other vampires are gonna try to kill him?"

Leonardo went still, staring beyond the glowing tablet. His mouth tightened as his eyes grew unfocused, and he looked at Donatello with dawning horror.

"I put you in danger?" he whispered. "It came down here because of me?"

"Well, we can't be sure until-"

Something clicked in Donatello's thoughts, and he sat straight as a solution to an even larger problem presented itself. This! This was exactly what he had hoped for and hadn't been able to solve. Leoanrdo's own need for them would keep him in check. Even if it was a lie, it would serve their purpose.

"Yes," Donatello said, as simply as he could. No fancy explanations-Leonardo had to grasp it and internalize it all at once. "You put us in danger. You killing people puts us in danger."

Raphael and Michelangelo snapped upright, following his train of thought. They both leaned forward, craning their necks or bending so that Leonardo had to see both of them.

"Other vampires'll come," Michelangelo said.

"If you keep murderering people," Raphael said. "So you can't do it anymore."

"Ever," Michelangelo said.

"They're so much faster and stronger," Donatello said. "If they come down here, you'd be the only one who could fight them."

"So you can't lead 'em here," Raphael said. "You can't go around playing Dracula no more, got it?"

"But-" Leonardo started.

Michelangelo put his hand on Leonardo's face, stroking just above his eyes to soften their demand. His brother, bewildered, turned his head to better fit into his brother's palm. Blood was life. They were asking him to starve. Demanding he go against his most basic nature.

"Is killing more people than you needed more important than keeping us safe?" Michelangelo said.

Leonardo grew still. Wasn't that what he'd said before? That he'd killed more humans than necessary, barely drinking a few gouts of blood from each? He put his hand over his mouth. The memory of it was so satisfying, a thrilling little indulgence, but...

"Nothing is more important than you," he whispered, barely audible.

Donatello took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. He felt the same satisfaction as whenever he defeated a tough problem, and he exchanged a triumphant smile with brothers. Leonardo's monstrous nature was half-solved. He didn't mourn the deaths, but at least he wouldn't kill so casually again.

"Oh god..." Leonardo whispered, not noticing their looks. "But...how am I going to-? I can't stay here not eating. You...you're in danger from me if I can't eat."

"Maybe not," Donatello said. "I still don't know how much you need nightly. We'll test it out, use our blood-I can draw blood with a needle," he said, forestalling Leonardo's objection. "You don't have to risk your fangs coming out."

Leonardo shook his head once. "I only drank from you because I wanted to. Small amounts. Tastes, nothing more. I can't actually feed off of you."

Donatello frowned. "Why not?"

"Because..." Leonardo stammered, struggling to find a way to explain. "Because you're not humans. You're not something to feed on. You're not just-you're too precious to just eat!"

Now the three of them were mystified at his reaction. He looked at each of them in turn, more and more disheartened that they obviously didn't understand. They didn't completely believe his worship of them, and even if they did, they wouldn't understand it, either.

"It will not come to that."

For the first time, Splinter raised his head. His eyes were tired, sagging in his face, and he rested too much against his cane, but he faced his son steadily.

"You will not need to rely on your brothers," Splinter said. "You have kept these tunnels safe for years. You can continue to clear out the humans wandering the sewers and cisterns. Such hidden prey will likely bring no danger down on our heads."

"Whoa..." Donatello said, his jaw dropping as he stared at his father. "Did...did you really just say that?"

"Master," Raphael said, putting one hand up as if Splinter had merely made a mistake and needed to be reminded that human life mattered. "You can't just kill people."

To their combined horror, Splinter's confusion matched Leonardo's.

"I have protected you from danger since you fell into the sewers," he said. "You do not remember the other rats, the lizards that thought four turtles would make a fine dinner."

"People ain't rats," Raphael said, then winced at Splinter's irritated tail flick. "I mean, you're people-"

"The first human came when you were still learning to walk," Splinter snapped. "He would have taken you away just as a snake or rat. He was no different. They are still no different."

Relieved that Splinter offered nothing but support, Leonardo nodded once, considering the advice. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. No one minded the crazed addicts and homeless vagrants vanishing.

"If I just tear them apart," he murmured, "before I get rid of them, just in case they turn into vampires otherwise..."

"In the same place they are normally disposed of," Splinter said with a nod.

"Wait," Raphael said, sitting straight, trying to get a word in over his father and not able to say anything meaningful. "Wait. You can't...wait."

But Leonardo and Splinter both ran over his protests, too focused on what to them was a normal part of life. If Splinter noticed the discomfort of his other sons, he ignored them, perhaps thinking to explain fully later.

"Where we put the others," Leonardo said, thinking out loud. "And the other vampire."

He blinked.

"The other vampire," he said. "You said you disposed of it."

Splinter nodded once. "You had already torn off its head. I merely put the body in the cistern."

Leonardo sat up, the blanket falling to his lap. His hand went back to his own throat, tracing the faint, faint scar where his shell and plastron had been ripped down the middle.

"I was almost torn in half," he said. "What if it's still alive?"

"It's head was completely off," Raphael said. "Don't you remember what you did to it?"

"What if that's not enough?" Leonardo said. "No. I need to make sure. I need to-"

Leonardo was smoke slipping through Michelangelo's hands and reforming at the door. He looked much different than before, no longer cringing but instead staring at the bricks as if he could see through them and see what the bat vampire had called the white death.

"Donatello," Leonardo said, "you should come with me. You might want more pieces."

Grimacing, Donatello scooped up his tablet, reaching for the powerful flashlight that he'd retrieved from under the couch. And then he stopped. A chill ran through him as he thought of following Leonardo into the darkness, alone with no way of fighting.

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" Donatello said. "That you're not trying to split us up and then mind control me again?"

Leonardo looked over his shoulder, craning his neck too far to see behind himself. He corrected in an instant, turning his waist slightly, but it was still an instant that they all saw his head twisting at an unnatural angle. Donatello would not be following Leonardo. He would be following his undead corpse.

Leonardo met his brother's look for a long moment, trying to hold out. Then he flinched first, turning away again.

"...sorry," Leonardo said, carefully picking his words. "I just thought...well. Old habits.

He shrugged, more at himself than his siblings. "I guess everyone should come."

"Or you could stay here," Raphael said, standing. "And we'll go look."

The challenge in his voice made Leonardo growl, jut enough to be audible. With a force of will, he beat down his response.

"And if it's still alive and kicking?" he asked, almost smiling. "You saw it fight. You want to take it on?"

Now Raphael tensed, ready to start a real argument. Instead Splinter's hand settled on Raphael's shoulder.

"We will all go," Splinter said. "And after we have observed the creature, either alive or dead, I will take you briefly to our old lair. There is something I would show you."

Raphael looked at him with questions already on his tongue, but instead Splinter shook his head once and rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

As if that were his cue, Michelangelo and Donatello moved to Leonardo's side, walking with him out the door and into the tunnels. Behind them, Raphael let Splinter pass and then sealed up the lair, waiting as the door' shadow swept the light away, closing and leaving him in darkness.

Then Donatello' flashlight came on, carefully angled away from Leonardo. None of them needed the light, accustomed to moving underground in familiar tunnels. The nearest of Donatello's jury-rigged lanterns was already visible at the end of the tunnel, a small circle of light that was only one of many throughout the nearby sewers. Tonight, though, they hugged the bright beam like a little piece of sun, a magic charm that would keep the monsters away, even if walking beside them, just outside the light's reach.


	25. Chapter 25

At first they thought the bones were just crumbled bits of concrete rolling underfoot.

The tunnel expanded into a a cistern so ancient that Donatello could see that the bricks in the walls were hand laid. Walkways lay on either side of the tunnel, running alongside the trench in the center. Even with their flashlights, they couldn't see how deep the water might have been. Completely black, the water flowed along the trench and turned a corner, then trickled out an iron grating set in the wall.

It was while trying to see the clumps in the water that Donatello's flashlight struck the edge they were walking on. Something gleamed white, and when he crouched down, he found that it wasn't concrete or stone. It was part of a human finger.

"This is where..."

He lit the rest of the walkway and found smaller bits of bones up to the corner. The water simply moved around and underneath the pile, pulling the air with it to make a breeze that had hidden the stench of death until they were right on top of it. Along the rounded curve of the tunnel, what he'd assumed was just debris was really a pile of decaying matter.

As he watched, the pile shifted slightly, and something fell with a wet plop into the water. Only because there was a glimmer of a gold tooth did Donatello make out that it was a head. The heavier parts of the corpses remained while the surface skin and rotted muscle sloughed off into the grate and vanished.

"This is..." He coughed, fighting back dry heaves as the rational side of his brain warred with disgust. "These are...how many is this? A dozen? No, they're all compressed...you can't even tell where one starts and the others—"

He choked and turned around.

"Splinter?" Raphael had lowered his flashlight, unable to keep looking. "This...you did this?"

"In part." Splinter motioned toward the far side nearest the grate. "I left the white body there, but I had dropped the head closer by. I do not see it, however."

Leonardo nodded and moved closer, kicking the larger bones into the water.

"Might've been carried by the current, swallowed up by the rest of the bodies," Leonardo said. "The vampire looked like it was pretty dead, though."

Raphael's voice was a whisper.

"...so did you."

Leonardo paused, giving a heavy sigh, then drew a sword and began nudging at the pile, lifting the parts out of the water.

"Really didn't want to have to dig through here," he muttered.

"You think it necessary?" Splinter asked.

"Unfortunately, yes." Leonardo motioned at Raphael. "He has a point. I don't feel safe letting this one rot like all the others."

He cut through a soft mass and sent part of it floating down the trench. It dragged to a stop, too heavy to keep moving, although part of it liquefied and ran off the rest of the way. The genius of this spot as a dumping ground became more obvious—only slime and unidentifiable black sludge would reach whatever water treatment plant lay farther along the tunnel. Any bones would have to crumble into pieces too small to identify as such, and the flowing water hurried the process along, even dragging the smell away through a sewer grate.

Michelangelo came closer to Splinter, staying on the side farthest from the dead.

"Who are all these?" he asked.

"It is hard to tell them apart now," Splinter said. "But if you look there, that gold tooth? And the red hair underneath him. I remember those. He brought that one with him, intending to drop the body in the storm drain. That is too close to the lair—I could not risk that he would come back with another when I was not there."

"Um..." Michelangelo pointed to a spot of color. "That bit of red...is that a knife?"

"Yes," Splinter said. "Just a pocket knife. He was using it to unstring a package here."

"A package?"

Splinter shrugged. "I did not recognize the powder inside. I left the package in the water as well."

"And...uh..."

Michelangelo ran his hand across his face. Seeing the proof of his father's killing made it harder to mentally put aside. He not compartmentalize his brother's kills when he watched him shoving corpses aside.

"...how many are there?" he whispered.

"Maybe twenty?" Leonardo said, stepping back to take a break. "It doesn't seem like any of them have completely gone. You have to remember, they decompose slow."

Punctuating his answer, the bottom body seemed to crunch inward as something inside gave way and broke. It was a trick of the flashlights, three different beams all hovering over dead hands and faces, but the pile looked like something had shifted inside of it, like something turning in a pile of leaves. The mass of bodies seemed to sigh, flattening a few inches.

_closer_

Leonardo stared at it, standing a little straighter, and took a small step back.

Had that...? He would have sworn that the sigh sounded too shaped, too much like a word he simply hadn't heard right the first time.

"Geez," Donatello said. "They're still releasing gases. Maybe..maybe I'll just take the arm over there. I...geez. I really wanted the skull, but...not if I have to dig through all...all that..."

Feeling as if his head were swimming, Leonardo touched the wall to steady himself. His brothers were too close, he thought. They shouldn't be so close. They needed to put distance between themselves and the dead. He wanted them to move back. In fact, he needed them to move back right now.

"This could take awhile," Leonardo said. "Don, tell me what you want from the body and I'll bring you back the pieces."

Splinter glared at him in warning. "Leonardo..."

"It's a lot," Donatello said, but he nodded once. "Let me note it down. I didn't think I was going to...I just..."

Donatello didn't want to get close to the body when it meant stepping over a dozen or more heavily decayed corpses, some of whom were coming apart, one of which might still be biting. He might have been able to treat it like any of his more disgusting samples if Leonardo and Splinter hadn't been standing there acting like their pile of dead victims was nothing.

"Tell it to me on the shellcell," Leonardo said, taking another step back. "Just go."

Donatello had taken several steps down the tunnel when he heard Splinter demand something sharply from Leonardo. And then he remembered that his brother didn't have a shellcell. That Donatello couldn't have sent his brother any notes in the first place. That he wouldn't have known what to take from the body if he couldn't examine it. That he didn't really want to go just yet.

And that meant that Leonardo was compelling them to leave.

Hurt less by the broken promise and more that he had to be afraid of his brother, Donatello's anger and fear churned together, making him nauseous. Turning, he pushed Raphael to one side and grabbed Michelangelo's arm, forcing them all to stop.

"You promised..." Donatello whispered, feeling like he might vomit. "You lying—son of a—"

"Go!"

Although he knew it was a command and he fought against it, Donatello stumbled back several feet and landed on his shell, dropping his flashlight. Raphael and Michelangelo landed beside him, and Splinter stood before them, his staff held at the ready.

At first Donatello thought Splinter meant to defend them from their brother.

Then the flashlight stopped rolling, shining a broad beam on the pile of corpses as it shifted, rolled and tipped over on itself. Three arms hung limp at one side, falling in the way of a half-revealed foot, a single leg, a face without eyes and a mouth drooped to one side. A torso that was little more than a chest heaved with gasping breaths, one of the ribs sliding free as black ichor dripped down the tearing sacs that were once lungs.

A head pushed up from behind the pile—its white skin had grown dark patches and its hair now lay matted, but the fangs were obvious even as the jaw hung open. Just above the mouth, the head had cracked open so that the decay slid in and out of its skull like rotted organs.

"Holy shit," Michelangelo breathed. "Is that...? Holy shit..."

An eye opened on the far side of the sludge, pushing out of a black palm under skeletal fingers. At the bottom of the mass of corpses, just above the water, a second eye opened. White like cataracts, they focused on nothing but rather stared upward as if in a corpse's head.

"Please," Leonardo said, glancing over his shoulder. No power was in his voice now, just fear as he begged his siblings. "Get out of here. I don't what it can do."

_fool_

Donatello paused, staring as the bodies swayed one way, then another, but the vampire's new body could not unroot itself from its spot. It tried to lift its bulk and revealed the tendrils pulsing beneath it, writhing like worms in heavy clumps.

"It's...it's controlling them," he said slowly. He rose up on his elbows, analyzing the way it tried to heave itself around. "It's trying to use them."

"Study later, Donny," Raphael said, helping him up and pulling him away. "Who knows how far it can reach?"

"Not far," Donatello said. "Look, it's trying to get to its arm."

They looked again. All of its tendrils ran along the water, trying to use the current to help reach the white hand lying a little closer than the rest of the body. They shuddered as the hand spasmed, the fingers stretching out to try to come that much nearer.

"I was right," Donatello said, his voice rising in scientific triumph. "Particulates...a vampire controls every part of itself individually. Probably down to the atoms. I wonder why it didn't just turn into shadows."

"...it can't," Leonardo said, creeping past the pile and sliding his sword beneath the arm, flipping it farther away. "When I got hurt, I couldn't change."

At the loss of its arm, the mouth opened and hissed.

"Oh," Raphael said, "it didn't like that."

"I wish I'd brought more test tubes with me," Donatello said as he reached into his belt. "This'll probably be the grossest sample I've ever collected."

"Dammit," Leonardo said, moving between the creature and his brothers. "Don't get close!"

"It can barely move," Donatello said. "Just keep the body out of its reach and—"

The corpses all pulled in at the middle as if the pile itself was breathing, and then a tendril of flesh and ichor sprayed out with violent force, a sharp point of bone aimed at Donatello's face. Too fast to stop, Donatello saw it as if in slow motion, the jagged edges of broken scapula sawing the air toward his eyes.

Serrated needles slashed through the bones, reducing them to splinters that fell harmlessly at Donatello's feet. A moment passed before he realized that Leonardo had revealed his fangs, facing the bloated thing in front of them with his fastest, strongest weapons.

Like this, it was easier to tell how different Leonardo had become—on all fours, his right side braced against the floor, his left side bracing the wall, and after a moment, he crept up completely on the tunnel wall, growling in constant threat. He crawled along the bricks, avoiding the pulsing veins along the ground as he neared the grotesquerie.

"Holy crap," Donatello said. "It can possess the dead bodies but there's not much left of them to control. Leo, take the head out—"

The vampire's disembodied mouth opened wide, baring its own needle teeth, and hissed again.

_traitor_

Leonardo flinched. The hate in hiss was palpable, spearing words through his mind. Whatever the white vampire had been before, it knew it was a monster now and it focused all of its anger and disgust at him.

"Okay, how do we kill it?" Raphael asked. "I'd just be stabbing dead people—"

"Wait wait wait," Michelangelo said. "It said something."

"Uh, no, it hissed like a snake," Raphael said. "It's—"

The creature shifted away from Leonardo, its eyes rolling around without much control. When it sounded again, they listened despite themselves. Leonardo went rigid, listening intently, then snarled.

"I don't get how you're hearing anything outta that," Raphael said.

"It's trying," Michelangelo insisted. "If I could just hear it right—"

The hissing turned into a guttural howling, a rolling moaning gurgle that spit out bile and blood and teeth as the mouth tried to form words, tried to gasp in air through shredder lungs. Michelangelo backed away, his hand around his throat. He recognized that sound—the same kind of groan that Leonardo had made when he couldn't breathe. Existing like that had been a nightmare for his brother, who'd had some hope of his siblings bringing blood and comfort.

This creature had nothing.

"Oh god," he whispered. "Can't...can't we just kill it?"

Leonardo glanced over his shoulder, hiding his fangs behind his shell. He said nothing, and Michelangelo took a moment to realize that his brother couldn't reply. The fangs made speech impossible.

Donatello gasped. "Leo, no, behind you—"

The distraction was fleeting but all it needed. The bottom half of the vampire's head suddenly turned black as its mouth split wide—wider than its jaw as it cracked and broke. All of the corpses seemed to flesh together, only to split down the middle as a mouth as wide a person opened, lifting to reveal fangs similar to Leonardo's but each over twice as long.

The hands of every body all lifted and struck the walls, the ground, pushing all at once. Several bent backwards or slipped away from their bodies, but there was enough push to lift the pile and lunge at the four of them.

Splinter's walking stick vanished into the monster, staking one body in the back, but even as the body slid free, slime and decay sealed up the wound. Leonardo seemed to reach after the cane, blocking the thing from his brothers while also putting his hand into its mouth.

The jaws snapped shut over his arm.

His brothers moved to come around him, already drawing their weapons. Leonardo instead moved in front of the other vampire, shielding them, and forced his arm deeper into the mouth. Cracks and wet twisting rips came as the mouth opened once and closed again, taking him in deeper, all the way to the shoulder. Blood spilled over its fangs.

"Leo, dammit—"

"—out of the way—"

"Let us—"

The corpses shuddered—the mouth opened with wild hissing, but Leonardo didn't try to pull free. As the vampire tried to flinch back, Leonardo hung on and reached even deeper. The hatred and hunger radiating from the other vampire overwhelmed his head like static blurring through his thoughts.

_kill your thralls kill your thralls kill your_

A shriek—a terrible ripping sound like skin tearing—and then the monster was a pile of bodies again, limp and dead on the ground. The monstrous mouth sloughed down into a dozen larger pieces, and Leonardo was left holding the broken skull and lower jaw, now white again. The teeth had twisted into into smaller fangs now embedded in his hand.

"Oh my god," Donatello whispered. "Is it...still alive?"

Despite having half of its head gone, the muscle in the jaw tightened, biting harder.

"Shit shit shit," Raphael said, standing and coming behind Leonardo. "How the hell do we get that off'a ya?"

Leonardo's teeth changed back so that he looked normal again, but he still put his good hand over his mouth, leaning against the wall. His eyes closed.

"Don," he mumbled, "do you want it?"

Wincing, Donatello gave a tiny shake of his head.

"Kill it," he said. "Put it out of its misery."

The skull began to smolder, charring at the edges, glowing orange beneath the bone, turning to ash. On the far side of the tunnel, the vampire's body likewise blazed, and soon Leonardo was left holding nothing but smoke.

"That thing was inside all the other bodies," Donatello said. "Better burn the rest of it if you can."

"...yeah."

Immolating the human victims took longer. There was something about a vampire's body that lent itself to fire, eagerly fanning the flames so that the body scorched faster. Not saying anything, they watched the corpses turn into cinders and grease and chunks of bone that the water then took away.

As if there was still more to burn, the veins in Leonardo's hand began to glow red, and tiny flames licked out from skin. He watched enrapt as more blood ran down his arm, as the edges of his wounds singed and flaked away.

Michelangelo's cry was wordless as he grabbed Leonardo and forced his hand into the water. The fire didn't stop, but when he forced his brother to look at him, to meet his eyes, the burning ceased. Michelangelo held his look a moment longer, touching his face, then pulled him close and wouldn't let go.

Leonardo didn't reply, quietly resting in his little brother's arms. Warm, enveloping, Michelangelo's blood flowed just below the skin, so close to his mouth. He decided that, later in the evening, he would ask if Michelangelo would let him taste.

And afterward, he would look up the word the other vampire had screamed into his mind. Thrall. He'd never heard it before, and if the other vampire had retained enough sanity to hurl it at him like an attack, he needed to see know what it meant.


	26. Chapter 26

The old lair was so much smaller than they remembered. Little more than a juncture between several tunnels, it had more entrances than walls. The filthy blanket they had strung up as a makeshift door now hung by one corner, and Raphael had to stoop to follow Splinter into what had once been their living room.

Raphael grimaced. A ratty sofa lay across from the half-rotted table that had held the tv set. Water covered the floor in more slime than dirt, and the rugs... He remembered dragging them home from the dump, being so proud of how intact they were, how colorful they were. Now the entire lair was one shade of brown and black, so open to the rest of the sewers that they didn't have to pass through any doors.

"Jesus," he whispered. "How the hell did we survive?"

There was a refrigerator in the corner, still plugged in. It had long since broken and now provided a nest for rats. Their eyes glimmered in the beam of the flashlight, so brazen that they did not run, simply turned to face them and warn them away with sharp teeth.

"Cautiously," Splinter said. He rested on his cane, looking over the light fixture, long since spoiled. Donatello had labored for hours to steal electricity from the power cords on the surface, trailing wiring through the tunnels, to bring the small glow into their home. "And much of it in the dark."

He waved at his sons to follow him through the lair, past their pile of bedding. After they had grown, they had complained about their lack of bedrooms, how they had to sleep in a jumbled pile, all at awkward adolescent angles. Splinter had simply expanded into the rest of that tunnel, using the semi-blocked off corners to give each of them their own space.

Now Raphael could have sprawled out and taken up the whole room.

"How far is it?" Donatello asked, examining a map on his shellcell. "And what is 'it' exactly?"

"The first place I had to use," Splinter said. "I was not as familiar with the tunnels then as I am today. And I could not bring myself to leave you for very long. Only to steal food and dispose of threats."

Although the sewers could run for miles in any direction, they stopped just a few hundred feet away from the lair. Splinter cleared away a sheet held together by mold, then motioned Donatello closer. The flashlight's beam fell over a mass of bones. They spread across the old cement like a blanket, yellowed and punctuated by black edges.

"It is...more difficult than I thought it would be," Splinter said. "To tell them apart. But...yes. Here at the left, these are the earliest ones that I can remember. Rat skulls. A snake...that one I can still see clearly. I almost lost that fight."

The vertebrae of a long snake lay scattered among other pieces, hard to identify. Numerous rat skulls stared back with empty eye sockets among the twisted shells of monstrous centipedes.

"They were small at first," Splinter said slowly, nudging some of the bones aside with the tip of his cane. "Almost as large as myself. I was only half the size of the first human who came."

He dislodged a curved bone that slipped free of the mold and slime on the floor. The broken half of a skull and eye socket rolled up.

They stared at it for a long moment, expecting Splinter to continue. When he didn't, Raphael coughed.

"Um...who was it?" he asked.

Splinter tilted his head. "I do not recall. It was so long ago and my thoughts were much...simpler."

"'Simpler'?" Raphael echoed.

"Find food. Take care of you four children. Protect the clan." Splinter shrugged. "That is all that mattered. And in many ways, that is still all that matters."

"It's the mutagen," Donatello said, turning away from the bones. "It didn't change us all at once. It took time. And..."

_We were still animals._ He cut himself off before he could say it.

Impossible to tell when they stopped being simple turtles. Donatello suspected that, even if he could have observed themselves in their early lair, he would not have been able to draw a line between the animals they had once been and the persons they were now.

He looked at his master as he calmly covered the bones once again. Splinter had taught them about honor, survival, family...and Leonardo had been the one to follow his teachings in spirit and letter. But what had Splinter actually taught them? Clan honor, clan warfare...clan above everything.

Donatello glanced over his shoulder. Leonardo leaned against Michelangelo, head low, not looking at them. He'd already been scolded for compelling them to back away from the pile of corpses. Of course he wouldn't leave the side of the one brother who refused to condemn him.

Donatello frowned. Who refused to hold him responsible for his actions.

"There's a difference between killing for survival," Donatello said, "and killing when you don't have to."

Leonardo didn't react.

Splinter's tail twitched, the only sign of his irritation, but he didn't argue. He had learned a long time ago to simply put an idea out into the air and let Donatello slowly examine it, take it apart and put it back together again. Even if Donatello didn't agree, he would come to understand Splinter's point of view. And through him, Leonardo's.

That was Splinter's obvious hope, at least.

Donatello turned and left the lair, glad to be out of the claustrophobic tunnels. The old lair was full of familiar shapes that no longer seemed to fit, and he found himself bending under the doorway that had once been twice his size.

As he passed the old couch, the refrigerator, their old bedding, he found tiny eyes gleaming in the swing of the flashlight. Dozens of rats now called this place home, and among them he heard the small squeaks and scratches of their nests. But they didn't attack him as he passed through them, and he followed the light out and into the underground. Behind him, he heard Splinter and Raphael following.

Occasionally he turned and looked over his shoulder. Michelangelo walked beside his brother, both of them the farthest from the light, sunk in shadow, and Leonardo was the last, his eyes reflecting the beam like a rat's.

* * *

Leonardo came to hate light.

Rows of candles he could stand, even love. He sat amidst the dozens of candles and watched their smoke curl lazily along the walls, gathering on the ceiling in thick black smudges. Candlelight made the room darker even as it warmed him. And it lulled Michelangelo into curling up with him, resting in his arms, laying his head on Leonardo's shoulder.

When Michelangelo invited Leonardo to taste, whispering as if afraid it was forbidden, there was no hesitation. The blade came to his brother's throat, drawing up thin droplets, and the tiny act of bloodletting became a prelude as Michelangelo began to demand other attention.

Leonardo, on his back and allowing Michelangelo's heat into himself, began to think of Michelangelo as a a small flame held in his hands. Eager, somehow fearless in his lap even after he'd seen everything Leonardo was capable of.

After everything Donatello said he was capable of.

There seemed to be no end to the litany of evil Donatello warned his brothers about—slaughtering hundreds, going insane with hunger, killing their friends, killing Splinter, enslaving his siblings—and Michelangelo came back each night, sitting by Leonardo's side and whispering each one. After Michelangelo repeated each accusation, he would look into Leonardo's eyes and wordlessly ask for assurances that Donatello was wrong.

And each night, Leonardo promised he would never do any such thing, thrilling in the absolute trust and love in Michelangelo's eyes, the warmth.

None of that in Raphael's eyes. Raphael brought blood and then watched him eat, took back the bags, stared at him as he meditated. Watched him with Michelangelo until exhaustion finally forced him to sleep, leaving at last so that Leonardo could enjoy his little brother.

Raphael wouldn't touch him, wouldn't talk to him. His offer of ending Leonardo's life hung between them, a promise that Raphael had not forgotten. It choked in Leonardo's throat, cutting him off every time he tried to speak to his brother, to begin to mend the ties between them. He had enjoyed Raphael's body before, but now there might as well have been a hundred miles between them. Just like Michelangelo, Raphael could have been a candle, but his glimmer was too far away to hope to grasp.

Donatello, however, was ice.

For another week, Donatello demanded that they remain inside the lair, never leaving save to receive food supplies from April. He pointedly made sure that Leonardo never accompanied his siblings on these trips and explained to her in painful detail why she could not see their brother anymore.

Leonardo, upon hearing this, did not ask how she reacted. That only made Donatello's jaw clench tighter, made it harder for him to even look at his brother.

In the lab, Leonardo sat beside Donatello's desk, raising his arm so his brother could take blood samples and record his shapeshifting in detail. He even let Donatello put a camera down his throat to better observe how the blood melted into his body.

"Hm," Donatello said as he withdrew the camera. "No gag reflex."

From the other side of the lab, idly flipping his sai, Raphael snickered.

"Not like that," Donatello said, giving him a quick glare. "There's just no response there. In fact, I don't think I've seen much in the way of reflex action since I started."

Leonardo glanced at Donatello's notes, but he couldn't read his brother's scrawling handwriting normally, let alone upside down and backwards. Questions often made Donatello's temper worse, but so did sitting quiet and still "like a corpse."

"What kind of reflexes?" he asked.

"Anything," Donatello said, too wrapped up in his work to be upset. "No scratching, sneezing, no eye dilation...hell, when was the last time you coughed?"

"...after the attack, I think," Leonardo said, looking down at the floor again. "When I couldn't breathe."

Donatello paused, wondering if he should bothering jotting that down. Then he took a pen and copied it out, adding the dates and times as far as he could estimate.

"Blinking?" he asked idly.

"I..."

Leonardo frowned. He couldn't answer, and he wasn't surprised when Donatello sat in front of him with a stopwatch and timed him. Five minutes had gone by when his brother stopped counting.

"Figures," Donatello said, adding the note to the growing stack. "All of your cells seem to be the same. Your eyes wouldn't need lubricating any more than your hands would."

He motioned at his samples, meticulously labeled in rows along his desk. Parts of vampires, not all of them from Leonardo, lay in neat rows with precise measurements of time and date and specimen. And, on a small glass dish, Donatello spilled out a vial of Leonardo's blood. He marked down the time he exposed it to the air again, the dark color, and the absolute lack of any coppery scent.

"I want you to tell me if you feel any of this," Donatello said, arranging several small test tubes on the desk. "After seeing you set yourself on fire, however briefly, we know that you're somewhat flammable. Let's not risk that again. But I want to see if you react to any of these base metals or liquids. If your cells really are all the same, you should still feel this somehow."

"That blood isn't in me," Leonardo said. "How would I be able to feel it?"

"The same way you control yourself when you're spread across the ceiling like a shadow," Donatello said.

Donatello didn't explain further, and Leonardo didn't ask. Too many questions would irritate him, and his brother was already tense. Leonardo watched him remove the stoppers of each tube, reading the short labels—iron, steel, silver, acid, water...

This was the hardest part, sitting through tedious experiments as Donatello repeated the same steps over and over and over again. From Donatello's intense focus, Leonardo would have though that the steel would iron would melt or the steel would explode into sparks. Nothing happened, and he wondered why Donatello bothered taking such detailed notes. His brother's tablet was even set up to record, catching every non-reaction. As Donatello prepared the next sample, Leonardo heard Raphael huff impatiently, flipping his sai in one hand. At hearing him, Leonardo shut his eyes, lowering his head. He could replay every touch of Raphael's calloused hands—

Donatello let one drop of blood fall onto the silver, so enthralled by how it hissed and boiled on the metal that he almost didn't hear Leonardo's scream.


	27. Chapter 27

The blood boiled away in a moment, and Donatello blinked and looked up at his brother. Leonardo had fled his chair and darted up along the wall, hands raised like a shield. With his eyes wide, Leonardo forgot to breathe, staring at Donatello and his hand still raised over the vial, a drop of blood ready to fall.

"What..." Leonardo couldn't speak, struggling to talk without air. "How...? What—"

The palms of his hands were covered in angry red welts.

Without looking away, Donatello spilled another drop onto the silver. As the blood bubbled and smoked, he watched the welts spread over Leonardo's arms—thin, livid and bright red. In the back of his mind, he realized that this was the fresh blood in his brother's body responding, rising to the surface against his will, burning the same way that the droplet burned...

The vials cracked and shattered as Leonardo's blood and fangs turned to black smoke and swept over the desk and wall, escaping back to his body.

"Like bugs," Donatello whispered to himself.

There was no mistake—the bits of smoke had moved as if they had legs, and the folklore of a vampire erupting into a mass of insects made complete sense. He began to wonder if there were other truths hidden in the old stories, other weapons...but for now he still held the last vial of blood, uncracked, hovering over the bit of silver.

Leonardo brought his hands close, curling over himself and hissing.

"What the hell is that?" Raphael said, coming close. He stood between them, eyeing them back and forth, not sure who was attacking who. "Don—?"

"His own fire didn't seem to hurt him," Donatello said. "But this..."

Another drop splashed on silver. Now Leonardo fell on his hands and knees, shaking as welts rose on his shell, on his face. He snarled, flashing his mouthful of fangs at Donatello in a threat.

Rapahel flinched, but Donatello never changed his expression.

"Finally," Donatello breathed. "Something that hurts you."

On his side, Leonardo groaned as his fangs vanished.

"I need to get more silver," Donatello murmured to himself. "I've got some good scrap here, can probably salvage a few ounces..."

Raphael watched him spill yet another drop, then watched Leonardo curl up on the floor. Around the welts, the skin charred and flaked away, leaving blood running from the wounds. The same sounds came from him, the choked gasping when he didn't have the strength to drag in air.

"Donny—"

"I'm going to need more of his blood—"

"Don—"

Before the last blood had burned away, Donatello was already tilting the vial to add more.

With a muffled curse, Raphael grabbed his hand and yanked the glass away.

"God's sake, fuckin' kill him or don't, but quit torturing him."

Blinking, Donatello looked up at him, then at Leonardo. Their brother tensed, making strange gutteral sounds in the back of his throat, and slowly the welts began to recede. The burned skin didn't heal at once, leaving him covered in scorchmarks.

"I should've made a silver gun," Donatello said. "Instead of my UV light."

"Freaking mad scientist—" Raphael started.

"Quit calling me that!" Donatello began to reorder his desk, sweeping glass shards away from his notes. He shook out his laptop cover so that the slivers fell out. "I finally have something to fight back with. Of course I'm going to experiment—"

"'Fight back with'?" Raphael said. "Seriously?"

Donatello halted and gave him a glare. "Yes, seriously."

"And you didn't notice the fangs, huh?" Raphael tilted his head at the desk. "The breaking glass. The way he was up on that wall all of a sudden."

"So he reacted," Donatello said, waving one hand. "An autonomous reflex—ha, now we have a reflex action. He probably couldn't help it."

Raphael sighed, then pulled the chair close again and straddled it, resting on the back.

"Donny, I swear to God..." He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead. "It's like you ain't got a survival instinct sometimes."

"Don't you even start—"

"Fangs, Donny."

Raphael motioned at their brother, now pushing himself up against the far wall. Leonardo slumped against them, arms around himself, holding himself as if he were cold.

"He was moving and he brought his fangs out full force."

"To try to scare me," Donatello said.

"That ain't the point," Raphael said, then huffed. "Okay, you know what? Yeah, that is the point. Yo, Vlad, it hurt, huh?"

Glaring at him from the corner of his eye, Leonardo stared at him a moment before nodding once.

"But the way you moved, you could'a made him stop, huh?"

Leonardo grimaced.

"Well?"

Donatello stopped. He put his hand on his throat, rubbing away a phantom soreness there that just happened to brush where Leonardo had drawn blood before.

"At first," Leonardo said finally.

"For fuck's sake," Raphael said. "Quit hiding it. You coulda' gone for his throat the moment you felt it. Hell, you even started. You don't show off those teeth otherwise."

Leonardo turned away, eyes shut, head bowed, refusing to face them.

"I..."

Donatello looked back down at his silver, still gleaming now that the blood had burned away, but in his mind, his weapon lost some of its potency. Powerful, true, but it took too long to incapacitate—time that could be used by a vampire to attack.

"If I use more blood at once," Donatello said. "Made a knife or a cross or..."

Leonardo tensed.

And Donatello stopped. The slight tightening of his shoulders, the way his knees came just a little closer in...he remembered seeing Leonardo after a fight, criss-crossed in cuts and slashes and the way he'd rested, refusing to move for fear of pulling the bandages. Bracing himself for when Donatello came with the needle, suturing another cut. Eyes shut, putting up with the pain.

He understood what Raphael meant.

Leonardo could have attacked, but he hadn't.

He put down the vial of blood, not surprised when the last bit finally crept over the top and skittered back to Leonardo, becoming part of his shell. Donatello said nothing. Of all the test tubes that had cracked, the one in his hand hadn't shattered.

"I..."

Leonardo's form wavered at the edges, then solidified again as he gave up trying to turn into smoke, simply fleeing to his room. They heard the lock audibly click, and it was only hours later when Michelangelo return from a supply run that the door opened again.

For the rest of the week, Leonardo didn't go near the lab, barely stepping out of his room. Michelangelo brought new candles, read comic books in his lap and occasionally brought blood. No one else came by, and he began to despair of seeing Raphael or Donatello ever again. He daydreamed about sneaking into one of their beds, charming them ever so briefly to stay asleep as he drank...but it was a useless thought. Donatello set his tablet to record every night. Leonardo had no doubt that his brother had all of their rooms monitored.

The unfairness of it galled him. He wanted so little—their blood, their adoration, their heat pressing against him, their understanding over a few mouthfuls of dead humans...

He sighed, readjusting Michelangelo in his grip, resting on his shoulder. He didn't think they would ever come around. There was a reason he'd kept his killing of humans underground a secret. That he was now eating his kill didn't make it any better in their eyes.

Using the whole buffalo of murder is still murder, he imagined in Donatello's voice. He chuckled once despite himself.

"You getting cold?" Michelangelo asked, turning and nuzzling his cheek. "The candles are starting to burn a bit low."

"I'll change them later," Leonardo murmured. "Don't wanna move."

"Sounds good," Michelangelo said, and he went back to reading his comic book out loud.

Leonardo drowsed in and out, hardly interested in the story. Far more pleasure to be had in the rise and fall of his brother's voice, the lift and the steady tone, the way it mixed with the sound of his heartbeat and the blood flowing through his body.

"...la belle dame sans merci hath thee in her thrall."

A page rustled. Leonardo lifted his head, looking over Michelangelo's shoulder at the page. He could glean nothing from the art—someone was reading from a yellowed book while demons lurked in the dark corners. The whole thing seemed to be a poem, and he lightly touched his brother's hand before he could turn the page.

"What is that?" Leonardo asked.

"It's a horror writer getting too fancy for her own good," Michelangelo said. "Trying to make it sound all spooky and magic, but it's just an old poem. A pretty famous one, too. You think she could've made up her own."

"What's it about?" Leonardo said.

"Hot chick makes guys into her slaves," Michelangelo said, pointing at the final line. "See? Chick without mercy gotcha in her clutches."

Leonardo frowned. "Why not just call them her slaves then?"

"Well, thrall's kinda different. Means he'll do what she wants 'cause he wants to. He's like spellbound. Caught in her trap."

"Like hypnosis?" Leonardo asked.

"Like what you did that really pissed off Raph and Don," Michelangelo said, glancing at him.

Leonardo held Michelangelo a little tighter, locking him up in his arms. His little brother sighed and held him in return, probably thinking that Leonardo felt bad...at least over being found out.

Instead Leonardo felt deeper chills running through his cold body.

Kill his thralls, the other vampire had threatened.

He hadn't been sure before, not knowing what the word meant. The monster's voice had been garbled with pain and confusion and hatred, lashing out in all directions, and he hadn't been sure if it had been warning him or threatening him.

Now he knew. The dead vampire couldn't have known that his brothers now controlled him. It had been raging that it would kill what it thought were his servants. Food source? Considering how starved the other two vampires had been, gone pale with hunger, no wonder they thought he simply had three slaves to easily feed from.

It had wanted to kill his brothers. The White Death had come down into the tunnels in search of him, true, but it had tried to bypass him and gone after Raphael instead. He suspected that the bat creature knew about them, too. Did the bat think he was dead? The risk was too great to ignore.

Nevermind the threat to himself. His brothers were in danger from something that none of them could hope to fight.


	28. Chapter 28

It was Michelangelo who came up with the idea.

For a week, Leonardo wouldn't come out of his room, turning into smoke and shadows when Donatello came inside. One moment Leonardo was holding Michelangelo in his lap, nuzzling at the tiny drops his brother let him lick, the next moment he was scattered along the wall and ceiling in a black vapor indistinguishable from the darkness. Nestled in the crooks of the bricks and stone, he listened to Donatello scold Michelangelo, their voices coming as if through water, until his little brother said something and sat back down again, refusing to leave.

Donatello held a test tube up at the wall, expectant, shifting from one foot to the other and glaring at nothing. Then he left, muttering something to Michelangelo that Leonardo couldn't hear.

After the fifth day, warmed by the surrounding candles and his brother in his arms, Leonardo didn't hear Michelangelo speak until nudged by his elbow.

"Mmf?"

"Lazy monster," Michelangelo said, turning his head to nuzzle him in return. "You can't hide from him forever."

"Watch me." Leonardo pressed small kisses along his throat and nipped without drawing blood.

"He's just scared," Michelangelo said. "You hurt us."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't mean to," Michelangelo said over him, and he kissed his cheek to soften the words. "But it hurt."

Leonardo didn't answer.

"And he's scared of other monsters," Michelangelo said. "And he doesn't know if he can count on you."

Leonardo pulled Michelangelo flush against himself, wrapping his arms around his little brother, and if his arms creaked slightly, lengthening like snakes to more comfortably hold him, neither of them mentioned it.

"He set me on fire," Leonardo whispered. "He burned me. On purpose."

"I know."

A long moment passed.

"You forgave me," Leonardo said. "Didn't you?"

"I..."

Michelangelo shifted in his arms, readjusting his weight so that he could look up at his older brother.

"I wish you'd asked me instead of making me," Michelangelo said. "I would have...I would have."

"I think I lost control over you sometimes," Leonardo said. "With all three of you. Did I?"

"...a couple times." Michelangelo fixed him with a look. "That doesn't make it right, y'know."

Leonardo didn't answer.

Not content with that, Michelangelo started to sit up only to be pulled back forcefully, made to stay in Leonardo's lap, throat bared to his mouth. His breath caught, and he glared sideways at him.

"Would you have done this before you changed?" Michelangelo asked, his voice low and wary. "If you could've forced me, would you have? Or did that come only after you turned into this?"

Without an ounce of contrition, Leonardo licked the scar on his brother's throat.

"Don't know. But...I know I wanted to." He half-shrugged, tracing his fingers along the edge of Michelangelo's plastron, drawing his finger along his brother's hip. "I just try anything until this."

"...let me go," Michelangelo said softly.

Leonardo hesitated, curling his fingers tight like claws threatening to pierce, gently biting at his brother's throat as if he could force him to stay—Michelangelo had to stay, he fit so well against him, he was so yielding and submissive and he tasted so _sweet_ —then with some effort, relaxed his hold and leaned back.

"Scary monster," Michelangelo said, standing and going to the door. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go talk to him."

On the floor, his limbs slightly too long, the sullen glare in his look, Leonardo hissed under his breath. In a single, fluid motion, he crept across the floor and became a shadow that spread over the wall. The candles flickered and went out.

"You can't keep doing this," Michelangelo said. "Neither of you can. So I'll get him to talk, and then you'll come down and we'll hash out something. Okay?"

No reply. Michelangelo huffed and opened the door wide.

"It's either that or I'm not bringing anymore candles." He frowned. "Or comic books."

He waited.

"...whatever."

The voice was hollow, breathless, like a dying echo along cold walls. It still made Michelangelo grin.

"Great. I'll call you down when he says yes."

But it took two days to finally drag a 'yes' out of Donatello.

Michelangelo tried following him around for hours, wheedling and cajoling. Tried the puppydog eyes which usually worked but only got a growl this time. Tried calmly presenting his arguments at the dinner table, hoping for help from Raphael and Splinter. Stoic silence was all he got in return until he touched on the fact that Leonardo might try to stay out of sight forever.

"Maybe it's better if we can keep him in his room," Donatello said. "If he's willing to stay locked up, weaken him over the course of a few months so he can't shapeshift or just float out of there."

"Can he actually get weaker?" Raphael asked. "I mean, I saw him almost dead."

"He is dead," Donatello said, stabbing at his food.

"You know what I mean," Raphael said as he pushed his full plate away, resting his arms on the table. "You really think he can be taken down a few notches?"

"Well, I can't tell if I can't get something to experiment on," Donatello said, but he stared at Michelangelo as he said it. "Convenient I don't have any tissue samples right now."

"What if I can get you those samples?" Michelangelo said, lunging at the chance, his hands braced against the table. "If I can get him to agree—"

"Why are you the one begging for it?" Donatello cut him off. "Why isn't he down here begging? Why's it so important to you? That monster made us—he made you—he..."

Donatello clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to say it, and looked away.

Michelangelo sat back quietly in his chair, staring past his uneaten dinner.

"Yeah, he did," he said softly. "And I almost killed him when he tried to come home. I just...figure how I'd feel if I was that alone, that my family would be happier if I was dead."

Donatello flinched. "That thing in there isn't Leo."

"I don't agree—"

"He controlled us" Donatello sat straight, the sentence summing up the whole of his argument. "And he's killed. Not to keep us safe. For fun."

Michelangelo paused.

"Yeah, he did." He took a long breath, sighing it out. "And he'd do it again if we hadn't told him not to."

"My point exactly," Donatello said, relaxing slightly.

"We told him not to," Michelangelo repeated. "And he hasn't."

Donatello tensed again. "So what?"

"So that monster in there was doing everything you told him to do up until you started burning him." Michelangelo tilted his head. "If it's not Leo, he's being pretty obedient."

At the side of the table, Raphael looked from one brother to another, waiting for one of them to flinch. Neither of them looked askance, and he frowned as the silence stretched.

Donatello didn't stop looking at Michelangelo. "Raphael. Get the test tubes I have on my desk, please."

Michelangelo knew better than to grin. He glanced at the bedroom door, slightly ajar.

"Leo," Michelangelo said softly. "Come sit down here."

At first there was no sign that he'd been heard. The door didn't waver, no dramatic shadow slipped out into the light. But a few seconds later, the chair beside him shifted and Leonardo was seated there as if he'd been at dinner the whole time. Not reacting to Donatello's stiffening, Leonardo kept his hands below the table, one clenched around Michelangelo's, and he stared fixedly at the table.

Raphael came back with two wooden holders full of glass beakers. He set them down in front of Donatello, then stood behind his chair, watching his brother for any movement.

"All of these filled halfway," Donatello said.

"You have to promise not to—" Michelangelo started.

"I won't hurt him deliberately," Donatello said, his gaze flickering to Leonardo briefly, then back to his little brother. "But experiments are experimental for a reason and I need to know what else hurts these things. "

Leonardo didn't move, but his shoulders tightened.

"Fine," he whispered before Michelangelo could answer.

Donatello pushed the tubes across the table and wordlessly stared at his brother. Leonardo hesitated.

"On one condition," he said.

"'Condition?" Donatello leaned back, glaring at him warily. "What?"

"Stop yelling at Mikey. For spending time with me."

Leonardo squashed every ounce of emotion from his voice. His voice came as flat and nonjudgmental as he could made it, afraid of triggering defensiveness from him.

It didn't help. Donatello's mouth twisted as his eyes narrowed.

"He thinks you're still our brother," Donatello said.

"And you don't?"

"Something died in that room," Donatello said. "My brother didn't kill to eat. And when he made a promise, he kept it. He didn't go back on it just because it was convenient."

The last word came in a tight growl through clenched teeth. That and his accusations made Leonardo want to bare his fangs, and he could feel his teeth twitching, instinctively trying to react.

"I've told you," Leonardo said, "I was trying to get you away from that thing's mouth—"

"My brother would have attacked with a sword," Donatello said. "You attacked with fangs and mind control."

A sword against a creature that could reform itself? The impossibility of it rankled in Leonardo's mind, but the certainty in his brother's eyes couldn't be argued with. Donatello believed it, so it was as true as he needed it to be.

In the end, Donatello left the table with his test tubes full and with only a token shrug at not scolding Michelangelo again. It was enough for now. Neither was happy with the conversation, and Leonardo spent the rest of the day in his room, sprawled over Michelangelo in his bed.

During the cold hours of the early morning, Leonardo slid away from the bed and down the stairs, hovering at the closed door of Donatello's laboratory. Careful that no one was watching—even though no one would see anything more than the faintest deepening of the shadows—he drifted in through the crack under the door.

To his surprise, he found empty tin cans and a thin red light running along the floor—security systems, he realized. The electronic alarm was easily thwarted by coming in slowly, his dust only half an inch thick as he moved, but the tin cans in a stack—he found the childish trap endearing.

Donatello was afraid of his magical monstrous brother and all the unseen monsters in the city. Leonardo could forgive him for his fear. Especially as Leonardo moved behind him, watching Donatello scrunched over his laptop, entering numbers into a spreadsheet.

He hadn't seen his brother alone in several days, and now he rediscovered the alluring line of his shell and the way his vulnerable throat appeared behind it, the way his longer fingers played so quickly across the keyboard. Donatello had left his mask loose around his throat, and the smooth curve of his eye ridges and cheeks begged to be touched. The ring of red around his eyes and the dark smudges beneath, the way he blinked too often and his eyes stayed overly wet...if Leonardo let himself, he could come from behind, kiss away the threatening tears, press a reassuring kiss to the nape of his neck...

And watch their brittle truce snap and break forever.

* * *

Donatello had left all the lights on so that his lab was painfully bright, obviously trying to banish all the shadows. He couldn't watch the whole room all the time, but if there were no shadows, then any darkness sliding around the room would stand out. Even as Donatello focused on his work, surely he'd catch any movement in his peripheral vision—

Donatello whirled around, eyes wide.

His lab was empty. He scanned the walls and floor and—holding his breath—the ceiling. Nothing. Putting his hand on his chest, he felt his heart pounding.

_I could have sworn,_ he thought, standing and looking at the far wall. _I could have sworn..._

Long moments passed, and he couldn't make himself move. He felt frozen in place, too tense to look around. There was a monster in his home, but was it inside here with him? Or was it in its room? Did the difference even matter?

Donatello squeezed his eyes shut, listening intently. Still nothing, and he slowly made himself turn back to his computer, made himself sit down, made himself look at the screen. Painfully aware of the sound of his typing, he finished entering his data and saved his work.

"Time to sleep," he whispered. "Just need some sleep. Stayed up way too late."

Staying up meant that the lair was silent save for the sound of water flowing in the distance, that his family was quiet and that he was the only one moving around. There was nothing to mask his steps as he moved through his lab, straightening up his desk, shuffling his make-shift trap away from the door, disarming the alarm. He couldn't bring himself to turn off the light, leaving the room bright as he left.

The laboratory's light distracted him from realizing that the kitchen light was on until he was several steps out into the lair. Expecting Michelangelo or Raphael, he looked up and halted.

Leonardo sat at the kitchen table.

The only thing that made it bearable was that Leonardo was staring at the floor, not moving, one shoulder hunched a little higher. That tiny sign of self-defense gave Donatello enough relief to start breathing again.

"What are you doing outside your room?" Donatello asked.

"Waiting for you."

Donatello took a step back, ready to bolt back into his lab.

"Why?"

Leonardo didn't move, afraid of spooking his brother. It had the opposite effect as he noticeably didn't breathe, unnaturally still as he spoke.

"I had a favor to ask. I thought about asking you, but then I thought it would be a bad idea to go into your lab while the door was shut...you don't like it when we go in. But then I thought you might go out again soon, and this couldn't really wait. I..."

Donatello grimaced, trying to balance his urge to run with the logical part of his brain telling him that this creature couldn't be killed or fought. He had to learn to control it somehow, to reign it in while he still had some leverage over it. That it babbled nervously didn't make it less frightening. It was all the worse that it was acting like his dead brother.

"Were you inside just now?" he demanded. "Did I feel you in there?"

Leonardo hesitated, mouth parting slightly.

"Yes," he said.

"I knew it," Donatello whispered. "I knew it...how? How'd you hide? How'd you...?"

"Under the door," Leonardo said. "Under your light...alarm...thing. The cans were—"

He couldn't help the faint smile.

"The can were cute. So Mikey'ish. But then I thought you did that because you didn't want me in there, so I left again."

Donatello stared at him for a moment, his eyes widening. His alarm had worked only because it had suggested to the monstrous vampire that he wanted to be alone. With a vague, breathless laugh, he put his hand over his mouth, leaning against the wall.

"Donatello?"

Laughing faintly, Donatello felt all of the tension slide out of him. What was the point? Why be afraid? The monster would kill him or not—there was no point to fighting it. It couldn't be defended against, couldn't even be slowed down. As he started to slump against the wall, the closest chair moved by itself, sliding the few feet to him so that he sank into it.

"What's the point?" Donatello whispered. "You'll eat us if you want to and I can't stop you. The only weapon I have against you takes too long."

"I'm not going to—" Leonardo started, then broke off.

His brother was sobbing. The tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and hung there, held in place by fear, but the soft gasps muffled behind Donatello's hands belied his trembling shoulders.

Leonardo sat straight, tensing—and Donatello flinched.

Leonardo almost yelled in frustration. Every single thing he did made his brothers more and more afraid of him, and he didn't mean to do any of it. He just wanted to stay with them, keep them safe, occasionally taste them...

"I can't stay on guard forever," Donatello whispered, no longer speaking to him. "I'll slip up. I'll forget to leave the tablet recording. You'll corner each of us, if you haven't already got Mikey under your spell again. And we'll all forget and there'll be nothing to stop you again."

Leonardo didn't protest otherwise. If he could have forced them to forget and be happy again, he would have seized the chance.

"So..." Donatello put his head in his hands, speaking through tears. "What more could you possibly want out of me?"

The right combination of words, Leonardo thought. Just the right thing to say, the right ideas...if he could just figure out how to phrase things, he could stop Donatello crying, comfort him and assure him that everything would be okay. But it had to be short, straight to the point—Donatello would see through any promises or pretty words. And Leonardo had nothing to offer except the truth.

"I want you to keep my blood with you," Leonardo said. "All the time."

Peering over his hand, Donatello stared at him in confusion, blinking away tears. "What?"

"When you burned me," Leonardo said, heartened that his brother was listening. "I could feel all of myself. And when I'm not like this, I can feel every part of me. Every bit of shadow, I can feel it. So if you had a piece of me, I would know where you are."

Donatello's face tightened. "You want to keep track of us."

"I...don't think it works that way," Leonardo said, all too aware of Donatello's fear. "I can't use it like that. I knew I was burning, but I couldn't feel where it was. Not until I tried to call it back."

"So...what?" Donatello shook his head once. "What's the point? Marking us? 'If lost, return to monster—'?"

"If in danger, break glass," Leonardo said, following his tone. "I'd feel it. I could follow it, find you. Save you."

Donatello started to ask 'from what', but his question died in his throat. From other vampires. From the myriad threats they faced. From another dead white creature in the sewers. From the powerful vampire bat flapping around the city.

_"They're so much faster and stronger,"_ he'd said _. "If they come down here, you'd be the only one who could fight them."_

"Like an undead attack dog?" he murmured.

Leonardo nodded once.

The offer hung between them as they sat in silence. Donatello didn't think about the actual demand in itself—a small vial in a belt pouch, a locket around the neck, blood held in anything small really—that was easy enough. But it meant giving up the semblance of control—giving over to Leonardo the means of tracking them down in an instant. They would be wearing signs that they belonged to him. With red eyes so tired that the dark lair was starting to blur, Donatello wordlessly looked at his sibling.

Leonardo knew that look, and inwardly he swelled with triumph. Outwardly he only took in a faint breath.

"I can't stop being a monster," he said softly. "But I love you. And...I'll do what you say. Please."

Donatello stared at him for a long moment, blinking slowly. How long had he been awake now? Thirty hours? Forty? Beaten down by his fear and exhaustion, he wasn't even sure if giving in was grasping at a last desperate hope or simply surrendering in defeat.

"Go stay in your room," Donatello said, barely able to form words. "Unless...until I call you."

Leonardo tensed—if Donatello meant to test him, that might last a long, long time—but he started to fade.

"Walk," Donatello suddenly said, glaring at him. "So I can see you."

Leonardo's outline became clear again. With a faint nod, he stood and walked back to his room. His feet made no sound and he seemed to float the last few steps into his room. Then the door shut and candle light flickered from underneath as he settled in to wait.

Three days later, Donatello could pull himself together enough to stop the tears. He wasn't in control yet, not enough to cut the fear, but he could command his brother—the vampire, he corrected himself. Leonardo gave him that control, but Donatello would take what small power he could use.

Even as he tied his smallest corked test tubes onto strings, he found himself breathing a little more freely. A leash went two ways. He would find a way to control his brother—the vampire—more directly. What he would do after that, he didn't know.


	29. Chapter 29

Days later, Donatello admitted to himself—though to no one else—that the compromise was working. Raphael had quietly accepted the blood only after seeing Donatello wearing his own vial around his throat, and Michelangelo had taken his with a small shake of his hand that had satisfied Donatello's own sense of worry. His little brother had been so eager to believe the best about Leonardo that seeing the blood in a vial had seemed to drive home to him the truth of what their brother had become.

And in return, a full week after Donatello's order, Leonardo had still remained in his room. Starving.

It was a test—they both knew it. How long would Leonardo pretend that Donatello had any hold over him? How long would Donatello keep it up before satisfied that Leonardo would obey?

He spent the days working in his lab, melting down spare technical components for silver, then casting that silver into small ingots. Bit by bit, he burned off plastic and steel, isolating the tiny flakes of silver that slowly accumulated into small piles. At the end of each day, he was left with enough material to...

To do what, he didn't know. Not enough for a bullet, hardly enough to make a knife. He simply couldn't gather enough to make a difference.

"I need to make another run to the junk yard," he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Or knock over a jewelry store."

The last one was more appealing. A faster haul, relatively low risk if he focused on the nearby pawn shops. He frowned, idly imagining simply giving Leonardo the command to ghost in, swipe everything and ghost out again.

"No, no no," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "He's not a tool. He's too dangerous to trust like that."

A tentative knock at the door made him sit straight, palming an ingot of silver. He didn't think Leonardo would have...but he couldn't take the risk...

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Dude." Michelangelo's voice, muffled through the door, came clearer as he shyly leaned in. "You gonna snap my head off?"

"I'm sorely tempted to," Donatello said, slumping back in his seat. "What is it?"

"Leo kicked me out of his room."

Michelangelo came and sat across from him, leaning over and resting his head in his hands. The sigh that came out of him felt like it carried all the weight in his world.

"Oh?"

"He said he couldn't eat off me anymore." Michelangelo looked up at him. "That he didn't want me there 'till he'd eaten again."

Donatello hesitated. He'd been secluded in his lab for days, and he had spent more time with Raphael before then, seeing Michelangelo only as a constant companion by Leonardo's side. This close, however, dark circles stood out prominently under his little brother's eyes, now rimmed with red lines, and the faint marks at his throat had healed over.

"Mikey," he said, "tell me very slowly...what did Leonardo say to you? Exactly."

Michelangelo frowned, but he closed his eyes, taking a moment to remember word for word. He added finger quotes as he spoke.

"He said 'I don't want to take any more from you. Not until I've eaten.' And then I got kinda pissed and asked why that mattered, and he said it was 'Cause I'd be eating'."

Donatello took that in, considering it.

"Remember when he said that?" Michelangelo pressed. "That we're too precious to eat?"

Despite himself, Donatello nodded once. "That we're like candy."

"That ain't what he said—" Michelangelo started, but he quieted as Donatello motioned at him to hush.

"I know what you mean. 'Too precious to eat'...he doesn't want to treat us like food. Like...something to savor. Wine." He scoffed mildly under his breath. "Treats."

Michelangelo looked like he wanted to argue, but he sighed again and glanced aside, staring at the far wall.

Donatello hesitated, wondering if Leonardo had calculated this moment, thinking to manipulate both of them to secure his release. After all, of course Michelangelo would come straight to Donatello to complain. But wouldn't he have realized this would upset Donatello even more, that this would remind him that Leonardo was a parasite surviving on a few drops given out? Or did Leonardo really mean not to feast off of his siblings? Worse, could they risk taking him at his word?

"Sit over there," he said, waving at the far wall. "Stay out of the way."

Brightening, Michelangelo went over the boxes piled on top of each other and chose a stable one, leaning against the corner.

Donatello cleared his work space, sliding everything to one side, leaving just a few empty petri dishes. From the side drawer of his desk, he brought out bags of human blood, one of which he tore and spilled into the dishes. Inside one of them he dropped a silver ingot which disappeared under the red surface. Michelangelo gasped and straightened, but Donatello silenced him with a sharp look.

"I'm not going to hurt him," he said simply. "But I need to continue with my observations."

After bringing out his laptop and opening several spreadsheets, he took a breath and looked at the open door. No one else was awake, and the lair was quiet. Only as he glanced at the screen did he realize that it was three in the morning.

"Leonardo," he said in a nearly inaudible whisper. "Come down here. Walking so I can see you."

A door clicked open, and although they didn't hear any footsteps, they saw his long shadow flickering against the wall in the candle light. Leonardo appeared at the door, then took the chair as Donatello motioned to it. He noticed the blood but didn't move to take any.

"Can I assume you want me walking from now on?" he asked, keeping his eyes downcast.

"...yes." Donatello rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. "That's a good assumption to make."

He glanced between his brother and his screen, noting the color of his skin, the clear tone of his muscles and the way his skin stretched too tightly over him as if he hadn't been drinking enough water. Leonardo had never been as heavy as Raphael, but now there was a whipcord leanness to him that made Donatello think of a starving wolf.

No, he thought. Wolves are mammals. A rattlesnake would be more appropriate. Or a viper.

"There's silver in one of these," he said, nodding at the small bits of blood. "Can you sense which one?"

Leonardo tensed, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "...no."

"Pick one," Donatello said. "And drink."

Leonardo hesitated, reached out and took the one in the middle, sliding it toward himself. As he brought it up, he glanced at Donatello, who stared impassively back. Leonardo closed his eyes and opened his mouth—

Donatello leaned forward, catching his wrist. A bit of blood splashed on the back of his hand, but none on his brother.

"I guess you really can't tell," he said, taking the dish back and plucking the silver out of it. "A few more tests, and then you can eat."

The rest of his experiments were not so dramatic—a test of his eyesight, his sense of smell. He lobbed a ball at him to test his reflexes and noted how Michelangelo startled at the supernatural way that only Leonardo's arm moved, the rest of him not twitching. He had Leonardo move his laptop across the desk without touching it, noting that Leonardo looked tired afterward. When he was finally satisfied, he put his supply of blood on the desk but did not offer them up.

Leonardo's gaze focused on the blood but he didn't move. The intensity of his stare was unnerving, but the fact that he didn't reach for them satisfied Donatello in a small way.

"You eat when I say." Donatello forced himself not to flinch as Leonardo focused on him. "You starve when I say. And you do what I say, to the letter and the spirit. Got it?"

Leonardo didn't immediately answer. He looked back at the blood, then at Donatello.

"Are you going to keep hurting me?" he asked.

"Depends," Donatello said. "You gonna keep hurting us?"

Leonardo opened his mouth, to make a familiar argument...then breathed out once. Protesting his own reasons made no difference to Donatello's fear and pain.

"I'll do what you say."

Donatello tilted his head, not sure if he should demand a promise, but ultimately was there a point? Leonardo wanted to do those things anyway, wanted them all together in bed playing to his commands. That wouldn't change. Demanding assurance made no difference to Leonardo's desires.

He cut the tip of one of the bags of blood, letting the scent fill the air. And then he leaned back in his seat and waited.

Minutes clicked by. At first Michelangelo frowned in confusion, but as he realized what Donatello meant to do, he glared at him, detesting the way he made Leonardo turn rigid, holding tight to the edges of the chair. He gone hungry for days, and now the blood was there, right there.

Michelangelo understand what Donatello was doing. A test to see if the vampire would keep his promises even in the face of starvation. But he'd sat with Leonardo for long hours, holding and being held in return, and it hurt to have to sit and watch.

"Half of one bag," Donatello said finally.

Leonardo had it to his mouth and nearly emptied almost before Donatello finished speaking. He stopped himself with visible effort and put the bag back on the desk, wincing as he saw how little was left.

"...dammit," he murmured.

Donatello laughed despite himself. That had almost sounded like his brother, sullen and angry at himself when they reminded him that he wasn't perfect.

"It's...almost reassuring," Donatello admitted. "That you're not completely in control."

He pushed the other bags toward his brother, giving them a nod.

"Go on, eat."

One by one, every bit of blood vanished, and Donatello noted the color changes in his brother, the rate the blood vanished at. His brother ate more slowly as he eased his hunger.

Donatello raised an eyeridge. Leonardo had finished, but the first bag still held its small amount. His brother had scrupulously followed his orders, leaving the first one untouched.

"Don't waste any," Donatello said. "Finish it."

Despite the mild irritation in his voice, they all knew Leonardo had passed another, unspoken, test. "Like extra credit" Michelangelo would have said if he thought he could've spoken without upsetting Donatello.

When done, Donatello had Leonardo set the small pile of bags on fire, burning them up so that there was barely even any smoke left. He quizzed him on how he ignited objects, how that felt in his mind, measured the changes in temperature as he incinerated other bits of trash.

At last he yawned, saving his work and closing his laptop.

"That's it," he said. "I'm going to get some rest. You...back to your room. Stay there."

Leonardo's sigh was faint, but he stood and flickered in and out before realizing that he was supposed to walk.

"At four, we're going topside," Donatello said. "You're coming with me."

"Um..." Leonardo stopped in his tracks. "I...don't know what the sun will do to me. I think...I think it hurt the other vampire."

"Considering my UV lamp barely made you smoke a bit, I'd question that." Donatello shrugged. "We'll figure out something. If there are monsters out there, I want you able to move around even if the sun's out."

Leonardo frowned. "Are you asking me to burn?"

"No." Donatello faced him, the strain dragging at his expression. "It might not be comfortable, but I'm not trying to hurt you."

If Donatello's intentions had been malicious, he had left himself a way out with that—he might not try to hurt Leonardo, but it certainly could happen. The doubt lingered between them, an unsaid possibility, but Leonardo didn't push. Instead he gave Michelangelo a soft look, then retreated back to his room, flickering out of sight at the last moment.

"That your cue?" Donatello asked softly, too tired to insinuate anything.

"He...he hates being cold," Michelangelo said. "So I sleep by him in bed."

Donatello gave a bitter chuckle. "One out of three ain't bad, I guess."

"Two," Michelangelo said deliberately.

"What?" Donatello stiffened. "Raph sleeps with him?"

"Slept," Michelangelo said. "Before he knew."

Donatello wasn't sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. But the thought lingered as he crawled into bed, imagining before he fell asleep Raphael drawing close to their brother (their monster, he told himself), holding him and possibly commenting on how cold he felt, gently driving into him, not knowing that Leonardo could have torn him in half or simply commanded him to spread his legs instead.

He wondered how he knew Leonardo would let Raphael take the lead...

In the afternoon, he could feel his face still flushed from the thought of the two of them together. That Michelangelo wasn't jealous only made his face feel warmer, and he imagined the three of them—

No. He had work to do. The junk yard, maybe a pawn shop or two. Taking a moment to put the vial of blood around his neck, he left his room and found Leonardo leaning against the doorframe of his own room, his candles burning low as he waited.

"Are we going now?" Leonardo asked. "Or did you want to wait for Raph and Mikey?"

"I'll wake them up in a minute."

Donatello hefted his duffel bag, feeling the tools inside shift awkwardly. As a thought struck him, he handed it off to his brother, who took it easily without a word. If he had a vampire looming over him, at least he could make use of him.

But Donatello didn't head to Raphael's room. The idea was still burning in his mind.

"So," he said softly. "Raphael."

Leonardo winced and lowered his head. "Dammit, Mikey..."

"Don't whine," Donatello said. "You're the one who told."

"I didn't..." Leonardo sighed, putting his hand over his face. "I didn't tell. It just slipped out."

"What, between biting Mikey?"

Leonardo glared, but he didn't bother to repeat that he didn't bite any of them.

"No. I was holding him, he asked, and I...I remembered."

Donatello waited for more, then motioned for an explanation. "And...then you told him?"

"No. I—" He shook his head. "I don't know. It slipped out. It's a strong memory, and before I could clamp down on it, he just knew. I think..."

He faced his brother, digging his fingertips into his arms.

"It was like when I...made you forget."

Donatello's face darkened, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he huffed impatiently. "Yes, that still pisses me off, keep going."

"I don't know," Leonardo said too quickly. "I... When I do...when I did that, I was pushing the thought out at you. This time, I remembered it and he just felt it. He...you have to ask Mikey. I don't understand what happened."

"He saw it?" Donatello asked. "You and...Raphael?"

"Yes? No? I don't—"

Raphael's door opened, and he came out, accompanied by their little brother. All of them shared a look made worse by how Raphael's face pinched slightly, knowing exactly what they were thinking.

"Well, great." Raphael went by both of them. "Nothing like having it broadcast to the whole damn family."

Leonardo almost mentioned how at least their master didn't know, but he swallowed that thought back down.

"It wasn't broadcast," Michelangelo grumbled, but he shoved his own bag into Leonardo's hands as he went by, stopping at Donatello's shoulder to whisper. "We don't have to talk about this now, right? Leo's new radio function?"

"It doesn't sound like it's new," Donatello said, "more like an uncontrolled secondary function of his mind control powers. I'll examine it later. I want to get this done before nightfall."

Normally a trip to the surface meant rough housing and joking and bragging over video game high scores and sporting bets. This time they traveled in silence, letting Leonardo take point to listen for monsters in the tunnels. Donatello led them down a different route than usual, bringing them to a large storm drain that opened up on the beach beneath the bridge, and he took his tools back from his brother.

"Okay, let's see if this works." He unzipped the duffel bag and drew out a heavy blanket, unfurling it in the shadows. "I've got two here, a sheet of kevlar and one of latex."

"Where the hell you get this?" Raphael asked, helping him pull the black material out.

"Same place I get my army surplus gear." Donatello tossed both sheets at Leonardo, who stumbled back as he caught them. "Try them, see if either one works."

"Easy to say when you're not the one who could catch on fire." Despite Leonardo's rueful look, he swung the latex sheet over his left hand and eased inch by inch toward the light—then hissed and jerked back, letting the sheet fall away and revealing a black scorch on the back of his hand.

Raphael rolled up the latex again, putting it back on the bag. "Okay, latex is bedroom only."

Covering his right hand in kevlar, Leonardo gave him a dirty look, then tentatively reached for the sunlight. He hesitated, gritting his teeth, then leaned forward an inch. And then another. And sighed in relief when nothing burned.

"Good," Donatello said, already zipping his tools back up. "Let's head up to junk yard first. We'll hit the shops later. I don't want this taking too long. Back before sundown, all right?"

With short, determined nods, they followed after him. At their heels, Leonardo took a tentative step, draping the blanket over himself. The kevlar itself wasn't that heavy, but there was a lot of it and it would have been unwieldy for anyone but a vampire. It dragged several inches along the ground, and he struggled to keep up with his brothers.

The idea struck him that he might be able to float. He concentrated, but he couldn't focus. The sunlight seemed to creep through the cloth, and he couldn't lift his feet up off of what now felt like burning sand. With a faint gasp, he stumbled forward, landing on his knees. As he startled to sprawl sideways, he caught himself with his hands, biting back a cry as his fingers slipped out from under the cloth. He yanked his hands in close, eyes widening as he saw that two tips of his fingers had smoldered to ash.

"Whoa, hang on," Raphael called out ahead. "He's down."

Someone lifted the handspans of cloth around his face, careful to keep him shaded as they peered in.

"He's gone kinda pale," Michelangelo said. "Don, I think we better get him back to the tunnels."

"Seriously?" Donatello said as he came closer. "The UV gun barely did anything. I didn't think the reaction would be this strong."

As his siblings discussed whether or not he should be affected in voices that warbled and drifted on the air, Leonardo had the vague urge to try to dig into the ground for some sort of shelter. But the sand grew increasingly hot, warmed by the sun, and he felt like he might suddenly combust from the inside out. About to beg Michelangelo to carry him, he managed to lift his arm and hold the kevlar up just enough to see his brothers in the sunlight.

He froze, staring at them with widening eyes.

Molten gold sunlight gave everything a metallic sheen—the sand was white hot heat, the ocean glimmered with flames, the sky broiled a magnificent yellow as mirror clouds hovered overhead—but his brothers... His brothers moved through that brilliance effortlessly, smooth and warm with pulsing hearts that grew louder and louder to him, burning from the inside with hot blood, and their eyes...they frightened him in how alien they were, suddenly not just clear and damp, but like jewels. Donatello's had turned to topaz, while Raphael stared at him with emeralds and Michelangelo's were faint blue sapphire. As they came closer, Leonardo shrank back, wanting to see all of them at once, afraid of how they had changed in an instant. In the sunlight, they looked both terrifying and enthralling. If they touched him, he thought he would start to burn.

Raphael hadn't been expecting the intent stare from the shadows. He dropped the blanket in shock, covering his brother's face once again, but that hadn't been a look of hunger or possession. Only because Leonardo began to wilt and collapse did Raphael manage to draw close again. As he gathered up his brother from beneath, cradling him like a shifting sack of sand, he heard a faint whisper from beneath. The voice only grew louder when he reached the storm drain.

"...beautiful...so beautiful..."

As Raphael pulled away the blanket, Leonardo's hand suddenly darted out and closed around his wrist. Raphael froze, gasping—this was it, he thought, I let my guard down and he's finally gonna eat me—and Leonardo pulled Raphael's hand down to his mouth, nuzzling his fingertips, breathing in his scent.

An awkward scuff came from behind him. Donatello moved around them, then knelt beside Leonardo and took out a long needle, drawing a sample of blood. He didn't bother searching for a vein since his brother was technically made entirely of the same substance.

"What did you see?" he asked, puzzled by his brother's seeming worship.

"You..." Leonardo groaned as Raphael shied away, but he released him without argument. "In the sun. You're like jewels. You're like polished steel."

They each looked at each other, confused by what he meant. Donatello made a mental note to make Leonardo draw what he had seen.

"Stay here," he said. "We'll be back before sundown. Way before sundown."

"Don't go anywhere," Michelangelo added. "Promise?"

Leonardo, now that they weren't directly in front of him, began to gather his wits back together. Flushing at his display, he curled up and put one hand on his head as if he had a headache. He nodded once.

He waited. An hour went by, then two. Not surprising—Donatello could be painstaking in his collecting, and he could afford to gather three times the material with two other turtles to help carry parts and gear. He had expected them to bring even more since they had a vampire who could shoulder at least a few hundred pounds, but perhaps they were going to take it easy on him after dragging him into sunlight. The thought of their possible consideration cheered him up a little.

He meditated, then spent a while listening to the sounds of the tunnels. Nothing but rain water rushing out to meet the ocean. Comforting, but more and more anxiety-inducing as the time passed.

The shadows lengthened as the light slowly changed its angle over the afternoon, and the glare went from blistering white to a deep gold. Afternoon had come and nearly gone, and he heard nothing of his brothers. No communication, no pile of things to carry as they ran back for more. He stood and began to pace, trying to feel for their presence. His senses seemed to run into a brick wall at the sunlight.

He crept closer to the entrance. The sky, now orange and pink, held a pale moon just at the edge of the tunnel's rim. A few bright stars glittered over the city. And the sun was sinking behind the buildings, leaving a dark gold burn along the glass windows while the violet edge of night followed behind.

Too long, he thought, it's been too long. They should have been back by now.

The evening light was still bright, and he didn't know how much it would hurt to brave stepping out. He bargained with himself another ten minutes—he'd risk turning his hand to ash to see just how soon he could come out—

The scrape of broken glass came from half a mile away. He could feel it as if Donatello had driven the glass into his body—numb with fear, he tore out of the tunnel into the light, heedless of the faint smoke he left in his wake.

He came upon his brothers in a few seconds—Raphael on the ground, shaking his head to clear it, as Michelangelo crawled toward him. Michelangelo's eyes, wide in a panic, met Leonardo's look.

"It got him—" he started. "So fast—it was screeching and I couldn't move—"

"It's the bat," Raphael said, putting his hand over Michelangelo's, then looking up at his brother. "It scattered us like nothing. And it took Donny."

Leonardo followed his hand as he pointed the way, and he could just make out the hint of large wings in the distance before they faded from view. But his blood called to him, showing him the way, and he moved like he had in the past—hunting his prey, flying over the ground like a shadow, cursing that he couldn't fly like the other vampire, sickened with the knowledge that he would never make it in time. Growing more and more feral in his panic that one of his most precious possessions might be hurt, stolen. Destroyed.

It wasn't enough to just have two of them. He must have all three, forever and ever, and anything that threatened them...he would utterly devour it.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> art by h0w-d0-y0u-d0-fell0w-kids

A shriek in his ears, the terrible pressure of rising far too quickly—the New York lights streaked in circles as Donatello was suddenly covered in cold mist, the streets blurring past him as he gasped for breath in the rushing wind. He grabbed for anything in reach and only managed to clench the cord around his neck and the vial of blood still hanging there.

Fire spread through his arm and side. Something sharp had hooked into where his plastron met his shoulder and clamped his other arm down against his shell. Biting claws that pierced skin and dug into muscle—at the loud flap of leather, he twisted and kicked out.

The claws opened—he dropped a stomach-churning multitude of floors—then he was caught again, his arms gripped in talons that dug even harder. His weight dragged on one shoulder so hard that he thought it had come out of its socket.

The next turn sent the blood from his head and the edges of his sight darkened. Windows flew by as they angled upward, and then he was hurled onto a cold, hard floor.

Trembling, Donatello curled involuntarily, bringing his arms close. The wind still felt like it was screaming around him, but the room was silent and so dark that he at first thought he'd gone blind.

One hand grabbed his shell and dragged him several steps, then dropped him into a hard wood chair. There was the rattle of chain around his body, a lock, and then silence.

When he was certain that everything had stopped moving, Donatello opened his eyes. In the blurry gloom, the circles of light slowly sharpened into the flames of candelabra. Long brown and red blurs became a dining table and darker stains of blood. A shadow swung back and forth along the ceiling, something that he couldn't make out.

Around him he saw nothing but darkness. No walls. No doors. The floor extended out of sight. He sat straight, coughing, and his eyes slowly adjusted to the light coming from his left. Floor to ceiling windows let in the city's glow over the tops of lit skyscrapers, and someone was closing one of long panes of glass.

Donatello shivered and cradled his arm, slick with blood.

"Brave little thing. No screams or begging? Not even a tear?"

The darkness ahead of him moved. He thought the wall had rippled, but with the lighting of another candelabra, the firelight showed him what his brother had described as the monstrous bat. Its wings unfurled to their full extension, pulling taut, then relaxing half-curled behind an elongated face that ended in needle teeth.

Donatello closed his eyes. He shifted in his seat, tugging at the chain around his waist. It ran several loops around him and locked somewhere out of reach. His feet didn't reach the floor, and he found it easier to bring his knees to his chest, wishing he could retract into his shell.

"Or can you speak at all?" The bat motioned at the darkness, and the woman who'd closed the window now came and poured blood into a decanter. "It will be a very boring century or two if your kind cannot speak."

It touched the woman's shoulder, running its claw along a scar over her collar bone. She didn't move except to stare at nothing. When it sliced her skin and lapped at the drops on its claw, she didn't flinch.

"Still...there are advantages to thralls who stay silent."

Donatello took a deep breath. He'd long passed taking ominous sayings as just ominous and gone straight to hearing it as a threat. He pushed himself to thinking up questions. Bad things happened only when the bad guy thought you weren't listening. Leonardo had always said to keep a bad guy talking.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"My roost," the bat answered, leaning back with satisfaction.

Resting his head on the high backrest, Donatello curled as much as he could into the chair. It was a weak attempt to fight back the nausea.

"So," Donatello coughed again, wincing in pain. "You're a bat that someone bit?"

The vampire laughed once, then fell silent again. If there were mysteries about where he came from, he was not about to tell them. He glanced at the woman, her brown hair falling over her face to conceal another scar. Her eyes were as dead as glass.

Donatello turned away.

There were many questions Donatello could ask. Where was it from? How old was it? What happened to its master? Were there other vampires in New York? Were there rules? He didn't ask. None of it mattered.

Instead, he began to laugh.

The bat frowned as much as its fangs allowed.

"If your thoughts are of rescue—"

Donatello's laugh surprised him with how much it hurt.

"'Rescue'," he smiled. "Leo wants to eat me and you want a slave. Logically my odds are better up here."

The bat watched him for a moment, taking a long draft of blood. When that didn't satisfy, it leaned forward and grabbed a bowl set on the table, drinking deeply. Donatello looked up and clamped his jaw shut so he wouldn't throw up.

Someone's bound body hung upside down from the ceiling, their blood dripping down and splashing the table.

"He died thinking of you, then?"

Donatello didn't hear the question. He stared at the body, unable to register anything else. He had seen bodies before, but he'd never seen a monster swallowing death like a casual meal. Even predators hunted. This was just the butchering of livestock.

The harsh strike across his face broke him out of his shock. He blinked, gasping, and looked up at the bat. It hadn't even moved but its arm had reached the length of the table.

"My thrall listens when I speak," it said.

"Sorry, sorry, ow, fuck..." Donatello winced, covering the rising bruise with his hand. "'Thralls'. You said that before. What is that?"

"He never forced you to drink?" the bat said as if surprised.

"He might have." Donatello said quickly, flinching at the bat's dark look. "I mean, he made me forget a lot of things. He made us forget. A lot. Oh god...please don't do this."

The bat waved its clawed hand. Donatello's wishes were clearly unimportant. As the bat finished the blood in front of it, it reached out, grasped the back of the woman's neck, then pulled her to his mouth and sank his fangs in.

Something in the back of Donatello's mind was screaming. He watched the monster feed for long seconds, and the woman never moved, never fought, never even changed expression. With a blank look, she began to turn painfully pale.

And just as when he pulled apart clocks to see how they worked, Donatello looked around the room and saw it for the machine it was. The bat was devouring as much blood as it could—it was preparing for a fight. A fight and to force its blood into Donatello. From its scant dialogue, Donatello deduced that a mouthful of its blood would turn him into what the woman was. A living doll.

Probably just glorified bait, he thought, so he can lure in Leonardo.

His first thought was that maybe the two of them would kill each other and save him all the confusion and doubt. He flinched at the thought of having to drink the monster's blood before his brother arrived. How much of his mind would he lose?

The bat finished drinking and let the woman's body fall. Donatello couldn't even look at it. He'd probably watch it fight his brother, would be ordered to help, and then it would eat him to heal back up. And there was nothing he could do about it.

His helplessness galled him. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to think past the fear.

He was going to be a slave by the end of the night. He couldn't stop that.

In his closed fist, he drew off the top of the vial of his brother's blood and swallowed in one go.

He heard its enraged shriek at the same time that one of the windows smashed in with a spray of glass. Leonardo crashed on his hands and knees surrounded by glittering shards, and for a brief second, their eyes met. Leonardo's teeth changed to match the needles of the other vampire, and in one fluid motion, Leonardo darted across the floor up toward the bat's throat. Despite his fear, Donatello felt brief confidence that his monster brother would win swiftly.

Instead the bat caught Leonardo in its hands, bringing his lunge to a sudden halt that Donatello felt in his chest. With a mouth that widened impossibly so that its jaw split open at its ears, revealing fangs in rows down its throat, it dove at Leonardo's neck and drove in with a spray of blood that splashed over Donatello.

The bat snarled around its mouthful, glaring not at the vampire writhing in its grip but at Donatello, watching him from the corner of its eyes.

Donatello licked his brother's blood from his hand and shoulder, returning his look. It was a small gesture of defiance, and the bat instead shoved one of its claws down Leonardo's throat, scratching their way out from the inside. With Leonardo's jaw in its hands, the bat pulled, ripping it free. Fangs and bone and blood vanished into the bat's mouth.

Donatello stared up at them near the ceiling, vaguely aware that the their momentum had carried them up, that the bat was using the hanging body as a perch as he tore at Leonardo. This battle just wasn't fair. The bat's wings overshadowed Leonardo, engulfing him as the bat drank deep, gutteral mouthfuls.

For a moment, Donatello saw the attack as if he was his brother, saw the bat's fangs gleaming in the candle light, felt the needle teeth cracking him open, felt his body going cold. Then he was falling, and Donatello snapped back to himself as he saw Leonardo sprawl backwards on the table, his front plastron torn down the center and blood glittering in the light. He stared at Leonardo's wide, blank eyes and saw fear there as the light in them died. Heard his gasping fall to nothing as he stopped moving.

His monstrous brother was dead, and Donatello felt something deep inside of himself wrench hard. He didn't hear the bat landing on the floor, flexing its wings triumphantly, or hear what it said to him. Even as it came close, its footfalls heavy enough to feel through the floor, Donatello could only stare at his broken brother.

The bat gripped Donatello's throat, tilting his head back, and he was still watching his brother's body.

Because of course Leonardo was dead. He'd been dead this whole time. And his dead body was still moving.

Leonardo's arm came up and over, sharp claws digging into the table so that it splintered underhand. The bat turned, dropping his prisoner, just as Leonardo lifted himself back to his feet. Leonardo's head hung at a jagged angle as his torn jaw now filled with fangs, the white needles appearing down his throat and forming a new jawline that included the gaping wound the bat had created.

This time, when the bat moved to catch him, Leonardo swallowed the bat's hand, the bat's arm, all the way to the shoulder. And snapped his teeth shut.

Screams filled the room so loud that they felt like a physical blow. As the bat stumbled aside, clenching its torn shoulder, Leonardo dodged its flailing wings, ducked its slashing claws, and found an opening straight up and onto the bat's wings, grabbing them both and pulling hard. Bones cracked and each hung at an awkward angle, dragging the bat down to its knees.

The rest of the fight was merely Leonardo wrenching its head aside and feasting, expertly breaking its fingers when it tried to catch him again.

For just a second, Donatello saw his brother again—a master ninja, a warrior in his prime, deflecting an enemy like second nature.

Then Leonardo drank the last bit of blood and let the body drop, already setting it ablaze before it hit the floor. As it smoldered to ashes, Leonardo turned his back on it and came to kneel at Donatello's side. Bones and sinew twisted in plain view, reforming properly, and Donatello watched enrapt as the monster hid itself in his brother's familiar face. Leonardo snapped the chains between his fingertips, then gazed up at his brother, touching his throat, his shell.

Donatello reached out to cup his brother's face, making him look up.

"Don't talk," he whispered, "don't talk, don't talk, please don't talk. Please don't say anything, please—"

Frowning in confusion, Leonardo's lips parted only for Donatello to cover them with one hand.

"Don't talk, don't talk, don't talk—"

As Donatello's voice reached the pitch of hysteria, Leonardo put his hand over Donatello's, nodding as they both held him silent. Long seconds passed as Donatello caught his breath, coughing. His hands shook, and Leonardo took them and held them in his own.

"You said you love me." Donatello swallowed, the taste of his brother still on his tongue. "Then you have to never talk again."

Leonardo tensed as if struck. But he said nothing, and that gave Donatello enough courage to keep going.

"The bat said that..." Donatello grimaced and shook his head. "Nevermind what he said. I drank your blood. I think...I think that turns me into a mindless slave. But from what he said, and I'm extrapolating a lot, then I only lose my mind if you give me orders. But it—it could also be if you just talk, and I don't want to lose myself just 'cause you said something. I don't..."

The tears welled up all of a sudden, and he choked on his words. He watched as Leonardo's expression went from confusion to realization. As Donatello's meaning sank in and Leonardo understood that drinking blood created a slave, the scent of blood grew heavy between them. Leonardo looked into his eyes, and Donatello felt the world falling out from under himself. His brother had always stared at his brothers as if they were water in the desert.

_He died thinking of you, then?_

It made sense. As Leonardo stood up, looming over him, holding his face so he couldn't look away, Donatello realized what that meant. Of course his brother had died thinking of them. What else could he do in death but try to satisfy the last hunger of his life?

Leonardo opened his mouth.

Donatello thought he was going to suffocate.

Instead of a word came a kiss.

The kiss was cold and growing colder as the bat's powerful blood moved through him, but there was no dominance, no attempt to push. Just a chaste brush that tentatively asked for invitation and rejoiced when he found it, not so much welcomed in but rather entering after a long siege. Donatello, defeated and too tired to fight, gave up and found that the monster holding him could be gentle.

And silent.

Without a word, Leonardo gave him a hand up out of the chair, then caught him around the waist when he stumbled. Donatello groaned as the room spun and his ears rang. He fell backward, knees buckling...

* * *

...and woke up curled on something soft.

Donatello startled upright, scooting back into a corner. The room was empty but he didn't recognize it. He found himself on a couch surrounded by black walls, a candle on an end table, a rug running a circle around him like a little island in the dark. He tentatively put his feet on the floor, and he was briefly surprised by how plush the rug was. His feet sank down, and when he put his hand on the seat of the couch, he noticed that it was similarly luxurious.

After years underground, that something this rich existed drew his attention from the horrors he'd suffered. He ran his hand along the wooden arms and backing, amazed that there was no torn stitching, no ripped upholstery. No bugs, no vermin.

It was...comfortable.

"Dude, you're awake!"

Light spilled in from the doorway. Michelangelo launched himself across the room, throwing his arms around him. Donatello moaned in painful relief, turning so he could sit beside him.

"Oh god." Donatello squeezed, tucking his face down into Michelangelo's throat. "I thought...I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Don't be so dramatic," Michelangelo laughed. "We've been in tighter spots."

Donatello didn't think so, but it wasn't worth arguing over. Not when Michelangelo wasn't letting go, adjusting just so they could fit a little closer.

"Where's Raph?" Donatello asked. "Is he—?"

A shadow moved past the door, lingering over them. Donatello already knew it wasn't Raphael and didn't look up. After a moment, the shadow passed again.

"Mikey," Donatello whispered. "Where are we?"

"Uh, top of a skyscraper," Michelangelo said. He drew back, holding Donatello's hand, wiping at his eyes with his knuckles. "It's been...geez, Leo just got a ton creepier. He won't even say anything now. He just kinda zoomed us up here and..."

"He hasn't said anything to you?" Donatello took him by the shoulders and held him at arm's length, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Look at me. This is really important, Mikey. He hasn't said anything?"

"No." Michelangelo shook his head, and he rubbed one eye, peering up with the other. "He isn't even laughing, and I know I've been pretty damn funny. Is he mad at us?"

"He's not mad." Donatello breathed out in relief. "At all. Mikey, did he give you anything to eat?"

"No. He brought us here, started burning everything inside. There's busted lights and stuff and Raph's trying to get the lights working. I..."

Michelangelo's voice grew small. "I don't think he's gonna let us out of here."

"I think he will," Donatello said. "Just...let's go talk with him."

He frowned and corrected himself.

"No. Let's go talk at him. It's not gonna be much of a conversation."

Holding Michelangelo at his side, Donatello went looking for his siblings. For being so large, the floorplan was very simple. A handful of bedrooms opened up to a large studio that Donatello recognized as the bat's dining room. Strong drafts blew in from around the wood and duct tape patch on the smashed window, and blackened ash swirled around in eddies on the floor. The room was empty, the bodies gone. The fresh blood had been cleaned away although darker stains remained.

Raphael sat against the far wall, a manual in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. Wires and an exposed switchboard dangled from the opened elevator controls and the elevator shaft itself gaped open, dark with a cool metallic breeze.

"Glad you're awake," Raphael said with a weary smile. "Gimme a sec here. Wanna at least close this and shut it down 'till we can get it repaired."

"'Repaired'?" Donatello asked. He glanced around. There was nowhere to sit—the table and chairs had been burned to cinders. He settled for sitting across from Raphael, crosslegged.

"It's private," Raphael said, turning the manual around so Donatello could see the cover. "Goes straight to the roof and the basement. But the lock's busted and I ain't going to sleep 'till I know it's safe."

Safe. The thought of being safe up here dragged a laugh out of Donatello despite himself. It almost opened the floodgates for another crying jag, but he swallowed it down and took a deep breath.

"So we can't leave."

Raphael's face clouded, and he slowly turned a screw. "Not yet? I mean, I ain't found a way out yet, but he's gotta know we'll keep looking. And he's even resting right now, so it's not like he can keep us trapped here forever."

"Yes, he can."

Donatello's breath was drawn and ragged, and he found himself leaning more and more on his little brother as he began to explain what he'd seen and heard. Bit by bit, he told them about the blood, the biting, the dead doll of a woman and what few scraps of information he'd heard. They listened, following his logic to puzzle pieces together and form a threadbare picture of what had happened. Of what Donatello had done to himself.

"You had to swallow it?" Raphael whispered. "I mean, you couldn't of—"

"I was going to be owned by something," Donatello mumbled. "I'd rather be a fruit snack than a main course."

"Jesus, Donny..." Michelangelo closed his eyes.

"Where is he anyway?" Donatello asked. "I hope he went to go scrounge up some furniture. I don't want to sleep on a scorched floor."

Raphael winced. "Um...those aren't scorch marks."

Donatello looked again. What he'd thought were ashes blown by the wind were now perfectly still, a layer of swirled cinders that lay on the floor like a layer of dust. Grimacing, he rapped his knuckles on the floor.

"Get up here," he mumbled. "If you're going to be creepy, at least don't be lazy about it."

The dust gathered, coalesced and took shape beside them. Leonardo's eyes were sunken and bloodshot and he held his fist against his mouth, breathing deep. Shivering, he looked sideways at Donatello, eyeridges raised in a silent question.

That Leonardo wanted a taste was obvious, although none of them would have been able to say how they knew. Donatello would have guessed it was partly what Michelangelo had called the 'radio function,' but he was thankful that at least his brother didn't have to say what he wanted.

Donatello couldn't even pretend to hold out. Heaving a loud sigh, he extended his arm and looked away.

The sting on his wrist was pointed but brief, and the sensation of blood leaving his body lasted all of a few seconds. Donatello winced and glanced out of the corner of his eye at his brother, holding his arm still, mouth pressed to his veins like a long kiss. When he finished, Leonardo looked less exhausted, but he still turned his attention to Raphael.

The intent was the same. With an uncertain look at his brothers, Raphael hesitated, holding his arm against his plastron. He looked at Leonardo's outstretched hand and shivered.

"Dude," Michelangelo said softly, offering his hand instead. "It doesn't hurt."

"That's not..." Raphael growled and refused to watch. "I still ain't forgiven the fuckin' leech, okay? And it's not like we're home, neither. We're stuck up here 'cause Vlad wants us trapped like turtle pops in an ice box."

Taking small sips from his little brother, Leonardo managed to frown in familiar irritation.

"I don't think that's it," Michelangelo said, his eyes half-closed as the feeding went on a little longer than usual. "It's safe up here, isn't it? And Master Splinter's not here—don't gimme that look, Leo, you aren't subtle."

A noncommittal murmur answered him.

"So you're going to keep us up here?" Donatello asked. "Forever?"

Leonardo paused, then licked a last drop away and let Michelangelo go. He faced Donatello steadily.

The question between them was not how long they would be trapped. Donatello bit his lip. The real question was how long forever was.

"You'll stay quiet," Donatello said softly. "And let us do...whatever. Let us be us."

Leonardo tilted his head.

"As long as we keep drinking from you," Donatello finished.

Leonardo didn't have to make any movement of agreeing. Behind him, New York stretched out with golden lights, a rich hunting ground. Thousands upon thousands of easy murders, with an unknown number of other monsters that also haunted it streets.

Up here, they were safe as jewels in a velvet box. Donatello had no doubt that Leonardo would bring them whatever they wanted, would do whatever they asked, would even escort them wherever they wanted to go. In return, he would keep his brothers enthralled, if not completely under his control.

Michelangelo scooted closer to Donatello. "Does this mean we're not gonna get any older?"

Leonardo's grin was a touch too wide, his eyes too delighted, and he crept across the floor as if he weighed nothing, sitting beside Michelangelo and putting his arms around him, holding him, nuzzling his shoulder like a cat marking his scent. Satisfaction filled the air around him. No longer afraid he would lose them, he could afford to be unrepentantly possessive. His teeth hovered above his brother's throat, and he didn't need to hide his hungers, breathing over Michelangelo's skin.

"We're not your toys," Raphael said sharply. "You're gonna have to shove it down my throat before I drink your damn blood."

Leonardo went very still, absorbing that. He gave a last nip at Michelangelo's throat, kissing the stung skin.

Then he reluctantly drew away and left their circle, moving toward the patched window. He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"My laptop," Donatello said quickly. "Bring that with you. And the notes on my desk."

"Junk food," Michelangelo said. "My games. Um..."

"A bed, genius," Raphael snapped. "Furniture. 'less you want us sitting on the floor all the time."

None of them doubted Leonardo would bring everything they wanted and more. All of them doubted that they could go home anytime soon, if ever. He vanished out from under the window, slipping away with the wind, and they let out a breath at once as the tension drained from the room.

"Wanna try to get outta here?" Raphael asked. "We can probably climb down if we're careful."

Donatello shook his head once. "He wouldn't have left it at all if he thought we could."

Raphael's face twisted. "You're just gonna give up, then?"

In an empty room suspended far away from contact or escape, Donatello closed his eyes, feeling very small. If he window hadn't been patched, he would have thought he might blow away. Even the elevator shaft felt like a danger, gaping open like the bat's mouth, like his brother's torn throat—

He clung tighter to Michelangelo. He didn't want to remember that.

"I can't fight him," Donatello whispered. "And I can't stop him. So...yeah. I'm giving up, Raph. Total defeat. He owns us, and we own him. He wants us, not slaves. Mutual assured destruction, I guess."

"You said you'd lose your mind if he talks," Raphael pushed. "If he breaks that promise—"

"Then what?" Donatello said, laughing humorlessly. "What, Raph? What am I going to do? You didn't see what I did. It was either this or..."

He half-shrugged.

"It's not so bad," he mumbled. "Being loved by a monster."

He didn't argue with Raphael's scoff. In time, Donatello thought he might come to believe that himself.


End file.
